


To Lovers Lost

by Ikkunaprinsessa



Series: Lovers Lost [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete, Cuddles, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Fighting, First Kiss... after a long time, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, John in Afghanistan, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of past Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Pre-A Study in Pink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:46:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ikkunaprinsessa/pseuds/Ikkunaprinsessa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John were in a relationship before the series starts, but broke up when John leaves for Afghanistan. When John returns years later, bruised and battered, what is their relationship going to be like?</p><p>Rated Mature for mentions of violence (just to be safe).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Got Shot

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Welcome Back](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/31600) by laurieisme. 



> I love writing but this is my first fic in the Sherlock fandom. Hope you like it!

**John's POV**

"Come on, wake up! Get up!"

There was a hand on my chest, a hand on my neck, then slapping my cheek. I couldn't get my eyes to open, but summoned all the energy still left in me to fight them off. To swap those hands away and lunge at them with the knife in my hand before they could get me... suddenly fully aware that it was too late. They had me, they'd hold me down and cut me open, I was only putting off the inevitable.

But the hands were backing off. And I heard a pained hiss and panting. "It's me", someone panted. "It's me, Majeed!"

I lifted a heavy arm and rubbed the back of the hand that was still holding the knife over my eyes. I could pry them open then, but my vision was framed in red. Blood in my eyes. I blearily focused on a young Afghan man, standing over me, bent over with his hands on his legs and panting.

"Majeed", he repeated. "I helped you at the hospital. Remember?"

"Yes", I croaked out.

"Good. If you put the knife away, I will look at your shoulder." He produced some more or less clean bandages from somewhere and wrapped a stripe of it around his own hand.

"Sorry", I mumbled, but had to fight to stay awake at all.

The world was spinning around me although I was clearly lying flat on a mass of sand and sharp rocks. I did manage to put the knife back in my belt I think. At least Majeed knelt down next to me and started to loosen my body armor to get to my shoulder. A scarf or something appeared in his hands, he balled it up and then pressed it down on the wound.

That woke me up! I groaned in pain and felt a strong urge to just coil up until it got better. There was a moment of panic too, when I realised that the shoulder hurt like hell, but that I couldn't feel my left arm at all. I turned my head slowly. There it was, still attached but completely numb. Could have meant anything at this point. There was a lot of blood though. Even the heavy body armor was drenched in blood.

I watched as Majeed bandaged my shoulder tightly, then placed a pack of cigarettes over the wound and tied more bandages around it. I'm afraid I kept writhing and whimpering all the time. His dark curly hair was falling into his face, but there was clearly a look of worry on his features.

"Nghh... Jesus!" I ground out when he finally bound the bandages together tightly, applying some more pressure.

He smiled sympathetically. "Yes, let's hope Jesus can hear you down here." He strapped the vest back into place and sat back on his heels. "I cannot carry you", he said, shaking his head. "You must get up!"

 _Right, get up Watson._ I made myself scramble to a sitting position at least, but I could already feel fresh blood seeping into the makeshift pressure bandage. _Goddamn, get up Watson_.

Majeed grabbed my arm then, the one that I could still feel, and hauled me to my feet. We managed almost, but I cried out in sheer blinding pain as soon as there was weight on my legs again. I would have fallen backwards again, but he was holding me up with a strength belying his skinny frame.

"Shhh... hush, they'll hear you. If they hear you, we're dead." Majeed sounded panicked himself, his brown eyes wide as saucers and he was out of breath again, when he slung my good arm over his shoulder and made me stumble forward. He was taller than me, but with all of my gear I might have been twice his weight.

"There, just a few steps." He nodded towards something. I lifted my eyes to see what it was and groaned. A motorbike? _No bloody fucking way!_ I almost faltered, but he pulled me upright again forcefully. "Come on!" He was groaning under my weight now. "You want to die here?"

 _No_. _Goddamn no_. My own heartbeat was thundering in my ears and my vision narrowed down to that damn bloody motorbike, but I pulled myself together enough to stumble a few more steps forward.

I really don't remember how he actually got me positioned on that thing, but I do remember that once he had me sitting behind himself, he slung my good arm over his shoulder again and tied my hands in front of his chest - knowing full well that I couldn't  hold onto him. There was fresh blood trickling down my chest now and as much as I tried to fight it, I was drifting back into darkness.

 _Please, just one more time let me wake again_ , was my last thought. _Please God, let me live_.

***

"Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson, can you hear me?"

I blinked my eyes, trying to focus. A female face with long red hear swam up before them. I tried to speak and found I couldn't. My lips, my mouth, my throat all felt like sandpaper. Her hand appeared at the back of my neck, supporting my head so she could hold a cup to my lips. I drank as if dying of thirst and slowly my senses came back to me. Made me notice what it was that I was drinking (cooled off tea) and that I was lying in a bed with clean white sheets. I blinked again, again trying to focus on the face before me.

"Susan?" My own voice seemed like miles away. But I could see her smile at that.

"Yes, that's me", the nurse answered. "It's so good to see you awake, Dr. Watson. You were slipping in and out of consciousness for days."

 _For days?_ "How bad is it?" I groaned.

"You took a bullet to the shoulder." she said seriously. "It shattered the clavicle, grazed the artery beneath and lodged in the scapula." _Not good._ "You were brought back here just in time." She paused, biting her lip. "There are some minor fractures also - two ribs and your right femoral bone."

I managed to lift my head enough to have a look at myself. Sure enough my right leg was propped up and in a cast. Not surprising then, that standing up had hurt a bit.

" The fractures should heal quickly enough, but the shoulder is more complicated." she added.

"The arm was numb... my left arm..." I managed to say.

With a nurse's practical determination she reached over and gave my arm a pat down, then took my hand and squeezed it. "Can you feel that?"

I nodded with some relief.

"Can you squeeze my hand?"

I found I could. She smiled at that, then grew more serious again - trying to read my face now. "Do you remember what happened?"

"No", I said decidedly. At least I didn't want to remember. Not ever again.

Silence settled. Familiar sounds filtered in through the tarpaulin around us. After all it was never really quiet in a tent city like the one we'd built up here.

"You'll be sent home soon, Dr. Watson. We were going to contact your sister. Is there anyone else you'd like me to send a message to? I can do it right away."

I thought about it. "Good friend of mine..." I said then. "Sherlock Holmes." It took me some time to come up with his email address. When I'd managed, sleep was taking me again.

 


	2. To Lovers Lost

**Sherlock's POV**

The message caught up with me when I was on my way home from a splendid evening at a crime scene. I'd just paid the cab driver, walked up to 221B, unlocked the door - all the while scrolling through unread emails on my phone. Trivial most of it. But that particular message had me stop dead in my tracks while still in the hall downstairs, scarf hanging from my hand.

_Dear Mr. Holmes... blablabla... contacting you on behalf of Dr. John Watson... blabla... wounded in action... will be sent home invalided...We expect a full recovery._

John. After five full years.

But seriously, what were you supposed to learn from a vague message like that? Sent home invalided - what constituted invalided? Unable to fight? Unable to even work as a doctor behind the front lines? What kind of injury was serious enough to be sent home? I let my memory come up with a list of possibilities, but all of them were less than pleasant. And what was that thing with the 'full recovery' supposed to tell me? When people lost arms or legs and learned to live with it - did that count as a 'full recovery' in their book? Really, the only thing that message told me was that John was currently unable to write emails himself.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what is it?"

I turned to see Mrs. Hudson. She seemed worried. "Sherlock dear, you look like you've seen a ghost!"

"It's... nothing. I'll be upstairs."

Once I was upstairs I strode over to the window (coat still on), leaning my forehead against the blessedly cool glass. Memories were bubbling up unbidden, distracting all further logical reasoning.

***

**December 2004**

To say that John and I met in a pub would be formally correct, but... not really to the point. To say that the very first time John ever touched me was in the same pub's toilets would be... misleading.

But first things first. It is very unlikely to encounter me in a bar or a pub or anything of the kind. I don't drink, so what is the point? That one night was an exception and therefore my meeting with John actually very much down to chance. Back then I was both a student at London's Imperial College and a research assistant at Barts. There was someone's finished thesis to celebrate and the professor I worked for more or less made me come along. So there I was, entertaining myself with scanning the room and making inferences about the patrons. I had noticed John and his friends of course, all of them doctors obviously - intelligent (well, at least moderately so) but highly practical people, thick wallets but not showing off money. That and although the phrase 'let's not talk about work' was uttered repeatedly, they couldn't stop talking about rather exotic medical conditions. Not only doctors though, at least two of them were surgeons clearly. You could tell by their hands - scrubbed clean for surgery again and again. The skin was raw in some telltale places.

However the cocaine I'd taken earlier (to survive this evening somehow) was having side effects. So I excused myself to the toilets. I felt dizzy, I was starting to sweat. I just needed to splash myself with a bit of water, or so I thought. Once there I felt so dizzy, sitting down for a second seemed a really good idea. This was when John came out of one of the stalls and started to wash his hands (and very methodically also - this one was definitely a surgeon). Then he spotted me.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine." Stupid question, stupid answer, isn't it?

"Doesn't look like it." Without further ado, he knelt down next to me, where I sat leaning against the tiles, and I believe sniffed my breath, then had a good look at my pupils. "Ok, so what did you take?"

I shook my head.

"Come on, I'm a doctor. I can help, if you tell me what it is you were using."

I made no reply, but I couldn't help but look him up and down. Although he was wearing a thick woollen jumper, the sleeves were clearly stretched tight over well-muscled arms (working out quite a bit) and although I'd seen him drink a pint or two, he seemed stone cold sober, his dark blue eyes sharp and alert (accustomed to go out drinking) but there was not a trace of a beer stain, his clothes were in perfect order, his hair cut short (orderly man) and the way he held himself, crouched as he was, told me... there was an obvious deduction here... but right now my heart had chosen to pick up pace and my breath was suddenly coming in short gasps.

My hands flew to my shirt and opened the top buttons, seemingly on their own account.

"Ok, let me take a guess then." John said dryly and took hold of my wrist to take my pulse. "Do you feel any chest pain, like someone sitting on your chest?"

I had to nod.

"Pupils dilated, you're sweating, your heart's racing..." At his point he took a very obvious look at my nose, then unceremoniously rolled up both my sleeves (both my sleeves - meant he couldn't tell if I was right- or left-handed) and let out a sound of disbelief. "Oh Jesus Christ, not your first time then." At the time my right forearm (I'm left-handed) was spotted with puncture marks all over, I have to admit. "That looks like a cocaine overdose, my friend."

I believe I grinned up at him.

He only shook his head and proceeded to take me to a hospital.

***

I was wondering back then and sometimes I still do wonder why on earth it was this one chance meeting that developed into something more when nothing else ever had and why it was John who started to care when no one else did... why John could tolerate my presence when no one else could.

Well, fact number one about Dr. John Watson: John is the least judgemental person in the world. I could already tell when he filled in the forms for my hospital admittance.

"Your name?" he asked.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." It's not a very common name. Most people frown. John didn't. He just noted it down in his no-nonsense manner. It was one of the little things that piqued my interest. I can still see us there - me sitting down in a cheap plastic chair, letting my heavy head loll back against the wall and him standing next to me, clipboard in hand. I watched him. There was still something about his posture that I had wanted to think about earlier. His back was ramrod straight and when he'd waited for a nurse to hand him that clipboard, he'd actually briefly held his hands behind his back. A very uncommon gesture... if you weren't... "You're in the Army! Obvious!"

"Sorry, what? Obvious?" He looked down on himself, as if he wanted to make sure he wasn't wearing anything that gave him away.

"But then you're a doctor. So either you did your military service before receiving your medical training or you are an Army doctor."

"Umm, Army doctor it is", he answered, now with a frown but also with a small lopsided grin. "And what are you, Secret Service?"

I chuckled. "No, that would be my brother."

Now his frown deepened. But he let it go and continued to fill in the form. But curiously I caught him steal glances at me in between, lots of glances. Asked me who my family doctor was, glanced at my hands, asked me about any chronic medication, glanced at my chest where my shirt lay open, asked me about any coronary problems in the family, glanced at my lips, asked me for how long I'd been using and how much I'd taken today, glanced at my crotch. What was he doing, checking for symptoms of a possible cardiac arrest? Well, my hands could've been shaking and he could've been watching my heartbeat where my shirt lay open, but surely my lips weren't turning blue and men didn't have erections brought on by high blood pressure? And then I saw his pupils were dilated. Oh... physical attraction!

"There... almost done", he said, "but I forgot your address and your phone number."

I told him my address.

"And your phone number?" he repeated patiently.

I gave him a lopsided grin. "If I give you mine, will you give me yours?"

He opened his mouth for a second and closed it again, smiled to himself but looked away for a moment, maybe he wasn't sure if he should be scandalized or really pleased with himself. "I...", he started.

"Come on, you do fancy guys", I said in a soft voice. "It's obvious!" I whispered. In retrospect, I'm surprised by my own bravado considering my own long history of rejection and considering I didn't know if he identified as gay or straight or bi or if he was open about his sexual orientation. There had to be a lot of closet cases in the Army. But he *was* smiling.

"Obvious?  Really, what are you? Psychology student?" he ventured.

I scoffed at that. "Psychology! High level research, useless. It's all down to chemistry really. But that's beside the point." I looked up at him expectantly.

"I'm not sure I should do this" he answered honestly, now glancing at my abused right forearm. Sure, what sensible man would give a junky his phone number? Another rejection it was then. I got very interested in the patterns of the floor's linoleum at this point.

"But you know what, I could... come and see you tomorrow morning?" I looked up at him surprised and he continued. "I'd say they'll give you a big shot of Valium and keep you here for the night to look out for any heart arrhythmia. But I could come and get you in the morning and we could... have breakfast? Would you..."

Like that? "Yes!" I said far too quickly. And it was settled.

***

I'd had my doubts if John would show up or not. But the next morning, just when some male nurse pressed a discharge letter into my hand and said the very useless phrase "Get off the drugs, kid", there he was. Stood there in the hall, wrapped in a thick green parka and with snowflakes melting in his blond hair. He smiled at me tentatively.

So he was attracted, he wanted to learn more about me, but had left himself a way out, I realised. If I turned out to be a creepy junky, he could leave and I wouldn't have a chance to track him down. He hadn't even given me his last name. _Well, if I haven't scared him off yet, then there's a fifty-fifty chance he'll think me a freak and leave_ , I thought. And so we made our way to a small café nearby with some hesitant conversation at first. By the time we actually ate breakfast we were engaged in some pleasant everyday talk at least. I learned that John was currently working in the military wing of the Selly Oak Hospital in Birmingham and that a long-time girlfriend had recently walked out on him. The holiday he'd planned to spend with her, he was now using to catch up with his friends from Uni here in London. He was disenchanted though that many of these so-called friends were too busy with their careers, marriages or babies to be interested in more than having a polite cup of coffee with him. Just when I thought that I'd have enough information to track him down anyway, he also told me his last name.

At some point John suggested we could have an after-breakfast coffee at my place, since I wasn't living that far away. Somehow I agreed although I had a pretty good idea what he wanted to do at my place that he didn't want to do in public. And it wasn't getting my clothes off, sadly. Sure enough, when he was seated in my comfortable leather chair and I was seated on my bed (there wasn't much more furniture to sit on in my tiny student apartment), both with coffee mugs in hands, he looked at me earnestly.

"Sherlock, I have to ask. Why on earth are you using this crap? You're such a smart guy, I'm quite sure you know what it does to you."

I sighed and watched my coffee intensely. _He won't understand._ "What it does to me. It saves me, John. That's what it does to me."

"Saves you?" John asked, now with a note of distaste. "Saves you from what?"

"You won't understand." How could he? John appeared to be a very friendly, very *normal* fellow, with a very safe grip on life. How could he understand what it was like to be left alone with a whirlwind of thoughts and no way to get out of your head?

"Won't I? Fine, do you take it to concentrate on work? I mean a life in Academia can be challenging..."

I looked at him puzzled, then erupted into laughter. "No no, more like the opposite."

"The opposite?"

I threw my hands up in the air then, desperate. "I'm bored! And I can't stand it." I jumped up from the bed and started pacing. "It's like being a racehorse locked up in a tiny box. Or like staring at white walls for days. That would get you bored, wouldn't it?"

"Okay... so you're embarking on a science career, but that's not challenging enough? You want to be high and excited, but your work and your studies they don't get you high and excited?"

I sighed and slumped back down on the bed again, my head in my hands. "No. No, they don't."

"Sherlock, how old are you? Do you really think Cocaine is the best solution for that problem?"

"You got a better one?" I asked grimly.

"Find a job that does get you high and excited?"

"You make that sound easy." I groaned and buried my face in my hands again.

"Come on, there has to be something that gets you psyched. You think you're the only twenty-something who doesn't really know what to do with his life, yet?"

"It's more complicated than that." I protested weakly. But he did have a talent to make this all sound simple and manageable, you had to give him that.

"Look, I'm not saying it's going to be easy, but you have to know that you're risking a heart attack pretty much every time you come down from Cocaine, especially when coming down from a high dosage. You got a first taste of that last night."

Hadn't been the first time actually, but I wasn't going to correct him here.

"And if you keep using it, at some point you won't even feel the excitement anymore. You'll just take it to cure the symptoms of withdrawal."

I was staring blankly at my own naked feet at this point. To get my attention he scooted forward a bit and leaned forward in his seat until his fingers were brushing mine. I flinched almost, startled by the sizzling contact, but I did look at him again.

"Hey, you're experiencing that already, aren't you?" he asked and brushed a stray lock away from my face, which promptly sent a shiver down my spine. And my decision was made.

I subtly leaned into the touch and looked up at him from beneath some curls that were falling into my face again, hoping it would have a similar effect on him as his touch was having on me. "If I promise to get clean, will you see me again?"

To my disappointment he withdrew his hand and crossed his arms over his chest. "Sherlock, that shouldn't be your motivation!" But once more he did actually look quite pleased with himself.

I chuckled. "Yes or no?"

His smile softened. "I'd love to see you again, Sherlock."

***

So he did come to see me again that night and the next day and the day after that, until eventually John spent the rest of his holiday overseeing my detoxification. There was a relapse some time later which made John make about a dozen phone calls until he could take another holiday to see me through it again.

And although John kept staring at my lips, my hands, my eyes and my bottom (oh, did he like my bottom) all this time, he didn't make a move. Trying not to take advantage of the poor unhealthy college kid (my god, I was 25 and not made of glass). So naturally I had to seduce him at some point, even though I did not have the first idea what to do with him, once I had him in my bed. Again John could have been judgemental when he realised I didn't know what I was doing (I was 25!), but all I received was more of his caring tenderness. Only this time it was intermixed with lust. I truly could not have had a more gentle teacher in the realm of sex.

There was some triumph in it when I finally got what people had told me someone like me would never get. And it wasn't just some random guy who took my virginity. Oh no, John was a girl's dream back then. His sandy blond hair, ardent blue eyes and simply adorable nose attracted a lot of girls actually and his loyal and caring nature, his homey sweetness (and of course his good job) qualified him as a potential husband, but there was more to him. Once you got those cute striped  jumpers off of him, you stood to discover muscles sculpted out of steel. Actually I developed quite a fetish for his well-muscled arms, chest and abdomen (as I'm sure some girls did before me). And they did remind me that actually John was a trained soldier who practised his shooting two to three times a week - a man with an iron will and almost impossible to upset. A man to take care of you when you were sick and to protect you should any danger arise. And of course an astonishingly good lover.

And I got to monopolise him. Me, the freak and the sociopath! He was all mine.

I didn't get to have him all the time though. He always had to go back up to Birmingham. So a heated weekend relationship is what we had... or a weekday relationship depending on John's shifts. It was stressful, at least for John (I could comfortably schedule my experiments around his visits). But he didn't mind it. Before he got this very comfortable hospital job, he'd been travelling a lot. They'd send him to whatever British Army base needed a skilled surgeon, let him come back to England and send him off again. So for him this was one of his more stable relationships. I didn't mind it either, since I was used to spending most of my time alone and during those months with John I had more social contact than in many years  before.

There was a certain routine to our weekends. When he stepped through the door of my small little flat he'd first make me roll up my sleeves and present my very healthy forearms to him. He'd keep his jacket on and wouldn't set down his duffle bag while I did it, a clear threat to turn round and leave should I have lied to him about being clean. I'd usually roll my eyes at him but comply anyway. When that inspection was done though he'd drop his bag heedlessly and throw himself into my arms, kissing me wildly. And I'd take care of that jacket (and the rest of his clothes) on the short way to my bed.

"You know I could stick that needle into other body parts, don't you?" I said once teasingly, between kisses.

"Then I'll just have to check them all." And with that I think we tumbled down on the bed.

When we were done with our lovemaking, John usually slept for ten hours straight. Despite his current job being the most comfortable one he's had in a long time, he was working 70 hours a week and it was taking its toll on him. But when he awoke ten hours later, he'd usually find me sitting at the foot of the bed watching him... and not wearing much but a smile. If he didn't wake after ten hours sharp, then of course I had to wake him... in a very sensual way.

Eight months it lasted. Blissful eight months.

*******

**September 2010**

Of course it couldn't last. All lives end, all hearts are broken. Mycroft would know. Mycroft would know...

I turned from the window and picked up the violin. Should help me think.

*******

**August 2005**

"So, who is he?" Mycroft asked, pouring tea for both of us. In reaction to my nonplussed face he clarified. "The man you're seeing. The one who seems to have such a good influence on you." I caught him eying my forearms. We were seated on the patio of my brother's city mansion and my sleeves were rolled up on that warm late summer afternoon. And there was not the trace of a puncture mark.

I took my cup, blowing on the hot liquid. "His name is John. John Watson. Holds the rank of Lieutenant..."

Predictably Mycroft almost choked on his tea. I couldn't help but grin into my own cup, when my brother attempted to cough discreetly and pull himself together. "A soldier?" he croaked out. They all expected me to bring home Albert Einstein's socially awkward great-granddaughter... or great-grandson for that matter, if I ever brought anyone home.

"An army doctor." I said, letting him off the hook. "A surgeon. Works in Birmingham, Royal Centre for Defence Medicine."

"Nothing like a military man to put you back on track, I suppose." Mycroft said slowly, considering. "He's taking a risk though." I gave him a quizzical look at that. "Substance abuse and homosexuality are both considered major risk factors for the contraction of HIV..."

"Incorrectly", I snarled at him, suddenly knowing full well where this was going.

"That may be so. But I was talking about what people might think. If his superior officers find out about his... *formerly* substance abusing boyfriend, they might be less than thrilled. An elevated risk of contracting HIV is not the quality you look for in a surgeon - in a sensitive security area at that."

I glared at Mycroft, anger rising. "Don't pretend that thought came to you just two minutes ago, Mycroft. You have your eyes everywhere, you were watching us for months. He got me off the drugs and now that that's done, you want me to break up with him?"

"Oh, for god's sake Sherlock! What do you think of me? I can see you flourish under this man's care, I'm not telling you to break up with him. I'm asking you to be discreet! His colleagues don't need to know about your relationship, your fellow students don't need to know..."

And then it happened - pieces of a puzzle putting themselves together before my inner eye. John and me, hardly leaving my tiny apartment, John not wanting me to come up to Birmingham instead of him coming down to London, John not asking to be introduced to any friends or family. I had seen the pieces all along, but hadn't even tried to make a deduction. Love makes blind. Not just a saying.

"He's already doing that", I answered, suddenly feeling numb. "Being discreet."

And I had failed to see it.

After a decade of being teased in school, *this* was quickly becoming the biggest humiliation of my young life.

***

At least I didn't have to wait long to have my suspicions confirmed. John came down to London only four days later. Would he go through with our usual routine, I was wondering. And what would he say if I confronted him with a biting remark? Lie? Deny it?

I was surprised though when John let his bag slide off his shoulder first thing when he entered my flat and reached up to bring my face down for a kiss. A sweet and gentle kiss - chaste almost. I hadn't expected him to hold my face and smile wistfully either. Something was clearly amiss. Something troubled John, his brow was creased, his back stiff, there was sadness and nervousness. John was always licking his lips when he was nervous.

He let his hands slide down from my face and rested them on my chest for a moment. "Sherlock, I need to talk to you", he said earnestly. He attempted to take my hand and pull me towards the bed. I shook him off and stood were I was, arms crossed. He sat down anyway, only then remembering to take off the light anorak he was wearing.

"Sherlock, I..." he started.

I never let him finish. "Oh don't bother", I sneered. "since you're so clearly here to break up with me." I started to pace up and down the room.

He held up a hand. "Sherlock... let me explain. Please!"

"What happened? Did your supervisors find out finally? That you're dating an ex-junkie? Despite all your efforts to keep our relationship secret?" He started to speak again, but I was fuming. "Don't you dare deny it!"

He slumped visibly. "I won't deny anything, Sherlock. I'm guilty of that charge." he said quietly. "Please never think that I'm ashamed of you or anything. My friends all know, my sister knows, even Stamford knows and I'm not that close with him. And Sherlock, I wanted to talk to you about that. I was going to, but..."

I stopped my pacing suddenly. "It's not what you came here to talk about."

He shook his head, rummaged in his coat pockets and came back with a carefully folded letter. Two logos on the letterhead. Lion, crown, crossed swords - British Royal Army. Rod of Asclepius, 'In Arduis Fidelis' - Royal Army Medical Corps. I felt cold.

"I just got my marching orders", he explained needlessly. "They are sending me off to serve abroad again."

"Abroad where?"

"Afghanistan." He looked up at me, trying to catch my eyes. Then held out a hand imploringly.

I turned away. Stared out of the small window with my arms still crossed. John was sad clearly, but not in a state of shock or surprise even. He'd known this would happen, he'd known they'd pull him out again sooner or later. I closed my eyes. "Go." I said quietly.

"Please, let's talk about this", he tried again.

"I said 'go'. Leave me alone."

"Alright." He got up and picked up his jacket. I could feel him hovering behind me. "But Sherlock, please... whatever you do, promise me you won't go back to the drugs. Please!"

_Me? Promise *him* anything?_ "Get out of here, John!"

*******

**September 2010**

I stored that memory away again, put it back in its rightful place. I was still moving the bow over the strings and only now did I realise I was playing a requiem. Admitting defeat, I put the violin back in its case and fished my phone out of a coat pocket.

I stared at my brother's number for a moment, before with a sigh I pressed 'dial'. "Mycroft, I need one of your access codes", I said as soon as he picked up.

"Sherlock, I believe I gave you a watch for your last birthday. If you were actually wearing it, you might even know what time it is." Mycroft remarked dryly.

"It's important, Mycroft."

"I rather hope it is."

"I'll need access to a military database. I need information on a soldier wounded in action." I was starting to pace the room, impatient for his reply.

"Why on earth would you need that?" Mycroft wondered aloud, while I felt like screaming in frustration. "Oh, is this about your lost lover then? What was his name again...?"

"John. Watson." I pressed out between gritted teeth.

"Right, of course, I remember. Was he wounded recently? Is he still in Afghanistan?"

"Yes and yes. Would you give me that bloody code now?"

"Of course you could just wait until he's been sent home and ask him what happened like other people might do. Not good enough though for the extraordinary Sherlock Holmes, I can see that."

"Mycroft", I snarled, close to losing it now. "do you think I would call *you*, if ..."

He must have picked up on something in my voice, for his demeanour changed at this. "Fine. Fine. I really cannot give you that code, Sherlock. But I will get the information for you, just wait a minute." I could hear footsteps and then the creaking of Mycroft's leather chair - old well-worn leather - and then finally the sound of typing. "So... Lieutenant John Watson, Royal Army Medical Corps... hmm... oh no, it's Captain John Watson now. Promoted on the battlefield." Mycroft said ceremoniously.

"I'll congratulate him right away", I answered acidly. "I'm sure, he's in the mood."

Mycroft made no comment, but kept typing. "So... our dear Dr. Watson was involved in building up a field hospital near Kandahar. Then got assigned to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as medic of the infantry. They were chasing a Taliban militia through the mountains north of Kandahar it would seem. But there is no 'wounded in action' or 'invalided' entry, yet. If it happened very recently his medical file might not have been updated either."

"I'll see when you send it to me, won't I?" I was pacing again.

He sighed. "I might have to make a call to get it. Good Lord, Sherlock. Who would have thought you still care so deeply about our good doctor. You hated him still, the last time you even mentioned ..."

I hung up at that point,  glared at the phone in my hand and tossed it into the sofa cushions. Then I walked over to the window again, staring down on the street below. I closed my eyes. _Please don't be hurt too seriously, John. Just not too seriously._

There came a muffled sound from my phone then, indicating a new email. _I'd better read that one on my laptop_. It was from Mycroft indeed. 'You're lucky' the heading said. 'You're lucky, they are transferring him to Birmingham. His shoulder needs another operation. They sent this medical report ahead (find attached). MH'.

I read the report greedily, drinking in the words, absorbing them. Then I opened another browser window to read up on the kind of surgery they were going to perform. Then I sat back staring at the screen, not fully satisfied. Naturally the report had said nothing about what had happened to John. It wasn't a full medical file even, just a doctor's letter stating the diagnose, treatment so far and recommended future treatment. I could keep myself busy for a couple of moments more by calculating the time they'd need to transfer him back to England, to conduct the surgery, the time until the fractures were healed and how long they'd give him intravenous antibiotics and when they might finally discharge him. But after that... after that there was only the growing static ringing in my ears that indicated I needed something new, something to do and at the same time an awareness that I would not be able to focus on anything. This would be a long night.

I was roused from my thoughts by a knock on the flat's door. Quite unnecessary to knock since the door wasn't even fully closed. And Mrs. Hudson poked her head in without waiting for a reply either.

"Sherlock, are you still up? What are you doing?" She entered the flat, carrying a bottle and two glasses, although I made no reply. "At least take off the coat, will you? It's nice and warm in here."

I stood and complied, throwing the coat over the back of a chair.

"Come on young man", she said and made me sit down on the sofa. "you'll drink a Sherry with me and tell me what happened."

She seated herself across from me on a chair and set the glasses down on the coffee table.

"I don't drink", I protested weakly.

"Make an exception, dear. And do tell me what happened."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued soon (if you want me to :) )


	3. New Arrangements

**John's POV**

With a sigh I let myself slump down on the edge of my bed again. About six weeks had passed since I'd gotten shot and I was barely fit enough to get out of bed and walk around the endless white hospital corridors. I was actually catching my breath now, a droplet of sweat running down my neck.  How was I ever going to get out of here, if a bit of walking around - and leaning on a crutch that is - tired me out like this?

There was a knock against the doorframe. I lifted my head... and could feel my own face light up.

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed. "Did they just let you walk in here?"

He swept into the room, a flourish of long coat and scarf, and closed the door. Chuckling softly he held out an identity card of some sort, before he let it disappear again, in a smooth magician-like movement.

"I'll better call you Mycroft then", I teased.

"Don't you dare", he said with a smile on his face. "Here", he held out a book, with a red bow loosely tied around it, "thought you might get bored."

"Cheers", I took the book and I think I dimly noted that it was a book about the world's most infamous serial killers, but actually I was just totally preoccupied staring at him. For a second I had my difficulties to reconcile my memory of that brilliant but also skinny fragile insecure science student sitting at the foot of the bed wearing nothing but rather unfashionable striped briefs and a broad smile, his wild curls standing out in all directions, with that... man... that smart confident man who had just walked into the room.

 _My Sherlock, all grown up,_ I mused but then quickly quenched the thought. He wasn't *my* Sherlock anymore. I could make no such claim.

I don't know for how long I actually stared at him open-mouthed, but he didn't seem to mind. He was watching me as well, running his eyes up and down my pitiful form and I started to fidget under that observant gaze. I was painfully aware that I was but a shadow of the man he'd known all those years ago. After years of physical and emotional strain, of eating army rations, of not sleeping enough, of working in blazing heat and freezing desert nights while waiting for the next ambush, my injury had just finished me off it seemed. Since our last meeting I must have lost twenty-five pounds at least so that by now I was as thin as he was. But then they had all but drowned me in sedatives and antibiotics until recently and both have a tendency to make my stomach flip over.

He noticed that I was watching him watching me and he met my gaze smirking, but I averted my eyes quickly. I couldn't take it.

Thankfully he broke his stare then, taking off his coat and scarf in one fluid graceful motion, draping them over one of the visitor chairs and casually flopping down in the other. "So, you had them write me this email", he started.

"Yes... right. I didn't want you to hear it from Mycroft." I said quickly. He seemed to think about that statement and a short but awkward silence ensued.

"Are you coming back to London?" he asked then and seemingly my awkwardness did nothing to deter his good spirits.

I blinked at him for a second. This wasn't the question I had expected. But naturally Sherlock wouldn't ask the obvious sickbed questions like 'how are you?' (he could see that I was a wreck) or 'how are they treating you?' (I used to work here, of course my former colleagues were treating me well). And I was stupidly grateful that he wasn't prying, that he didn't make me describe in detail exactly how poor I felt.

"I uhm... yes, I think. I'd like to anyway. Not quite sure I can afford London right now, but... yes."

If anything his smile grew even wider. "That's great and I can help with that."

"With what?" I asked dumbfounded, but then maybe I was still mesmerized by that smart tight-fitted purple shirt standing in contrast to his alabaster skin and dark hair.

He wanted to roll his eyes at my slowness, but restrained himself a little bit it seemed. "With you being unable to afford London", he pointed out, the well-known 'obvious' remark was there in his voice and I couldn't help feeling just a tiny little bit offended. "You see, I have this really nice flat and it just so happens that I do need a new flatmate."

I had to smile a little at that. "What happened to the last one?"

"Moved out." he replied with mock indignation, lifting his chin a little.

I chuckled despite myself. If this new advanced Sherlock was at all like the Sherlock I remembered, then I had a pretty good idea what might have happened - like Sherlock experimenting in the dead of night, either letting out a yell of triumph at 2 am or causing enough smoke emission to make the fire brigade break down the front door.

"And you... want me to move in?" I thought about it. "Do you think that's a good idea?" _We had this terrible breakup, Sherlock. This terrible terrible breakup._

He leaned forward in his seat, his long fingers almost close enough now to touch mine where they were holding the damned crutch between my knees. "John", he said and his tone somehow commanded that I look up at him instead of watching our hands. "Don't you think that after all these years we can just be friends?"

I swallowed, the embarrassing threat of tears constricting my throat. "I'd like that." I managed and I meant it. But I felt light-headed all of a sudden, not sure if it was my physical condition or the sudden emotional turmoil.

"That's settled then", he said leaning back, quite definitely pleased with himself. But his cool grey eyes took on that keen observing look again, when he saw me shivering helplessly. He quickly glanced at his watch, just a smooth flick of his wrist. I dimly noted that it had to be an expensive one, Breitling or something. And I shared his thought. It was about half past four in the afternoon - classic fever time. And yes, this did feel like rising fever.

He frowned. "Is the wound still infected?"

I shook my head. "No... don't know."

He got up then and placed the back of his hand against my forehead. Nice and cool it was. _Please, keep it there._ That was my last thought though, before I heard Sherlock curse under his breath and felt him push me back down on the bed before he pressed the buzzer and called out for a doctor.

***

Two weeks of heavy antibiotics and two weeks of physical therapy later I was finally finally released.  A not-yet-twenty year old Private carried my bag and kept me talking as I made my painfully slow way across the clinic's immense parking lot.

"Oh, that's gotta be your sister." he said then.

I looked up. Yes, there she was, smoking next to a shiny dark blue BMW and waving to get our attention. Her blond-brown hair was blowing in the wind and she'd wrapped herself in a long coat the same navy blue colour as her car. Business was going well again apparently. When we approached, she put out her cigarette and opened the boot. And then, to my surprise, she came over to pull me into a hug. The last time she hugged me must've been at our parents' funeral. But well... this was nice, wasn't it?

She pulled back then and held me at arm's length for a moment. "You look horrible."

I had to smile a little bit at that. "I know I do."

Private Drake had stowed away my bag in the meantime. We saluted, then he turned and walked back. And that's how my Army career ended. At the age of thirty-seven I was now officially retired. And I had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

*

It was a two hours drive to London. Fortunately that shiny new BMW turned out to be quite comfortable and Harry and me hadn't seen each other in a while, so there were things to talk about.

"But that wasn't a tropical disease you brought back, was it?" she asked.  "They didn't put you under quarantine?"

"No no, typhoid fever. Not that contagious." Not that pleasant either.

I let my eyes wander over the landscape outside. During my time with Sherlock I'd taken this road so often I should have known the trees by name. And you'd expect me to be happy to be back, to see familiar things again, right? Then why did British autumn look surreal to my eyes? Somehow I'd gotten used to very different landscapes.

"And now you're moving in with Sherlock." she said , bringing me back from my musings. "Isn't that cute?"

"We'll be just friends, Harry. Just friends."

"Yeah right!" What a saucy grin she could grin. "I wouldn't move in with an ex-lover, John."

"I guess I wouldn't under normal circumstances", I replied. And not with an ex-lover that I had had a near-traumatic breakup with. But first of all I really couldn't afford London right now and second, to be honest, I dreaded the idea of being in London all alone. This way I'd get to watch Sherlock yell at Petri dishes and walk over furniture at least, if I didn't have anything else to do. I had to smile a little at the thought. "What about you and Clara anyway? Will you two work it out?"

Harry seemed to grip the wheel tighter at that and gave an exasperated sigh. "No John, we won't and that's what I told you last time." She didn't look at me but kept glaring straight ahead. "It's official now, we're getting divorced. There, I said it. Do *you* want to give me relationship advice now."

"Come on Harry, when did I ever lecture you on relationships?" I replied, crossing my arms over my chest. "I'm just sorry to hear it, that's all." 'No need to get hostile' was what I wanted to say. Harry wasn't usually that short-tempered, unless...  I watched her out of the corner of my eye for a bit. Didn't take long to pick up some suspicious symptoms. Harry seemed impatient, nervous and... oh no, her hands were shaking when she didn't grip the wheel tightly. "How's therapy going?"

Now she shot me an angry glare. I glared back. "Fine." She said with mock sweetness. "I can take really good care of myself, little brother. And even if I couldn't, it might not be your business."

"You're my only living relative, Harry. 'Course it's my business." She wanted to say something, but I cut in. "You know what I think. We both know what alcohol does to people, because we had to watch it all through our childhood. And I won't stand watching as history repeats itself. And I don't want to have to bury you, too."

"And where has my only living relative been lately? If anything, I came close to burying you. You're the one who almost got killed three thousand miles away from here. Can I yell at you for that? Because I'd like to."

It was always the same. We always tried to be friendly and we always ended up like this. When London came into view, we were both looking forward to get rid of each other again. When Harry parked the car on Baker Street we were both still fuming in silence.

"Alright", I said reaching for the door handle. "Thanks for driving me. Goodbye Harry."

"John, wait." Her hand was on my arm all of a sudden. She sighed dramatically. "You... you did almost get killed three thousand miles away from here and then they release you from hospital, although you're not one hundred percent back to health and now you're moving in with a mad... with Sherlock. I mean, is he going to take care of you?"

I let go off the door handle and sat back. "I'll be okay, Harry."

"Listen, if you need anything, if things don't work out with Sherlock, you could stay at my place for a while and if you need money..."

"I'll be fine, Harry. Really." I looked into imploring eyes, but didn't truly know what more to say.

"You'll be in touch, right?" I nodded half-heartedly. "Do you even have a mobile right now?"

I fished mine out of my pocket.

She smirked. "You should hand that one over to a museum."

"In fact...", she turned and rummaged around on the backseat. "I thought you could take this one." She handed me a box with a still quite new smart phone in it. "Clara gave me that one for my birthday. Really, I don't wanna keep it."  

"That's not necessary..."

"Take it. It's my welcome back present." There was a friendly smile on her lips again. "Welcome back, John."

*

I'd made the mistake to try to lift that duffel bag onto my shoulder and now I stood there in the middle of the sidewalk trying to rearrange it so it would neither bump against the crutch nor lie too heavily on my still sensitive shoulder. In the end I just dropped it again and carried it in my hand while I limped up to 221B. What a pathetic picture I presented.

When I reached up to knock, the door flew open and there was Sherlock - Sherlock in his charming mood apparently. "John, come in!" he said with a wide inviting gesture and as an afterthought plucked that bag out of my hand. "I'll take that." He was wearing a handsome charcoal suit and a shirt of a colour somewhere between white and grey.  When I'd stepped inside, he gestured towards a nice elderly lady that was just coming down the hall. "This is Mrs. Hudson, our landlady."

"Oh, come in you", she said warmly. The 'you poor thing' was implied I think.

They led the way upstairs and into a slightly messy but actually really charming comfortable flat. "Oh this could be very nice", I said turning around myself to take it all in. Then I regarded the kitchen and I couldn't help myself. I cracked up laughing. Sherlock looked at me as if I might actually be offending him, so I tried to swallow my laughter quickly. "Sorry, I just had some kind of déjà vu. Only you didn't have as much space to set up a lab in your old flat." I stretched a bit and carefully sat down in a comfortable chair with a Union Jack pillow in it.

"There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms", I heard Mrs. Hudson say.

"But... um... 'course we'll be needing two." I glanced cautiously from Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson and back. Oh-oh, this was thin ice. Sherlock said he wanted to be friends and these things had to be really crystal clear between us for this arrangement to work out. But with our history of me keeping our relationship secret, I probably shouldn't deny our past attachment too vigorously either or I would just hurt Sherlock all over again. I knew it, moving in with the ex-boyfriend was going to be complicated.

"Oh, don't worry dear", our landlady said smiling and actually patted my good shoulder gently. "We got all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door has got married ones." She turned to leave. "I'll leave you boys alone for a bit." And with a wink in Sherlock's direction she was gone.

I waited until I heard that she'd made her way down the stairs. "So... you told her about us."

Sherlock actually made a show of tidying up a bit, not meeting my gaze. "Oh maybe I have, maybe I haven't. You know me, John, sometimes I don't stop talking for days on end."

 _Yeah right_. I moved on to safer ground. "So, this is a prime spot - has to be expensive. Can you... or can we afford it then? I mean last time I saw you, you were still studying chemistry, biology, anatomy, pharmacology..."

"I know what I was doing back then, John. Thank you." was the slightly sarcastic reply.

"Did you ever finish one of those?"

"Um... no."

"But we can afford this?"

"Yes."

"So, what are you doing these days?" Just when I was wondering if this wasn't safer ground after all, Sherlock got distracted seemingly. There was a sound from his mobile indicating a new text message. He picked it up and smiled sweetly when he read it. _A date maybe?_

"Oh, I'll pop out. You make yourself at home, John." he said, not looking at me but staring at his phone still. "Don't wait up. We'll talk over breakfast." And with that he was down the stairs and out on the street. I heard the door click shut.

"No problem. I was going to have my stuff delivered, so I guess I just wait here 'till it arrives. No problem at all." I said to the empty flat.

***

I was back there, the sun blinding me momentarily. I stood there, right in the middle of havoc. There was shooting around me and screams and the gurgling sounds of someone who'd been shot in the throat. "John, get over here!" someone shouted. But I just stood there. A comrade of mine, Keith, walked up to me and clapped me on the shoulder. "We were under fire. We couldn't scramble down there to get you. I'm sorry, John." he said and turned around to walk away. And there it was, the knife in my hand. Had he left it there? And then I was on the ground, hands holding me down, a sword glinting in front of my eyes. "NO!"

I woke with a start, suddenly sitting ramrod straight in my own bed again and before I knew it a loud sob escaped my throat. I let myself collapse back against the bed and buried my face in the pillows, tears running freely now.

"John?" I could hear Sherlock on the stairs up to my bedroom. He walked into the room slowly, then pushed a moving box out of the way so he could sit down on the edge of my bed. He nudged me gently. "You're not suffocating yourself with the pillows, are you?"

Did he have to make me look up at him? I did anyway, let him see my tear-stained face for a moment. Other people might have turned away to grant me some privacy, but no Sherlock had to study my face first, then turned away. He was still wearing that nice charcoal suit, but his hair was in a wild disarray. He used to do that to his hair when he was thinking hard. Either that or his date did it to him. "At least I didn't wake you up?" I asked, trying to keep the tears out of my voice. My heart was hammering against my chest as if it wanted to run away. So I tried to take calming breaths and stop sobbing.

"No no, I just came back." He reached over to where some of my medication lay openly on the nightstand next to an empty water glass. "Molipaxin? That's an..."

"I know what it is. I take them as sleeping pills."

I might need to have a conversation about privacy with him really. But was that genuine concern on his face? I couldn't tell really in the semi-darkness. Some light of the street lamps outside filtered in through thin curtains, but I could only see the outlines of his features.

He sighed. "Do you... want to talk about it?"

 _What, the pills? My nightmares? After I haven't seen you in five years?_ I shook my head, then remembered he might not see the movement in the dark. "No", I said softly.

He relaxed, I could see *that* clearly. His uneasiness had been a palpable thing in the room. Talking about emotional things really wasn't his strong point. People misunderstood that, thought he didn't feel emotions like other people did. That wasn't the point though, he just very often didn't know how to voice them.

 "Did you take one of those tonight?" he asked, not in an accusing way, then put the pills back.

"No, thought I should try to sleep without them." _Great plan, worked out perfectly_.

"You want one now?"  

"Actually... might help, yes."

He picked up a water bottle from the floor, refilled the glass on the nightstand and handed me both the glass and a pill. I took them both, feeling drained and tired now that I had calmed down somewhat. In the meantime, Sherlock got up and got rid of his shoes and suit jacket. And then he climbed into bed behind me.

"What are you doing??" And my own voice sounded strangely shrill to my ears.

"What you did for me when I couldn't sleep during my time of rehabilitation", he said, a smirk clearly evident in his voice. "Offer close physical proximity and tell you a bedtime story."

"You're not sleeping in my bed when I'm drugged!"

He grumbled something under his breath, something about 'trust issues'. "So I'll leave when you're asleep again, okay?" he asked.

"Okay", I said quietly.

I had curled up on my side and he scooted closer, but didn't come close enough to spoon me - only close enough so I could feel the warmth emanating from his body. And I felt I liked this, having him close but not too close. God, I was so messed up.

"Did you know that Mike Stamford is teaching at Bart's now?" Sherlock asked. His deep soft baritone rumbling right through my spine in a very soothing way.

"No." My eyelids felt heavy already.

"Do you know what his students call him?"

I was chuckling despite myself. "No."

"Good, and when I've told you, I can delete that information also..."

Sure enough, when the drug took effect and pulled me under, I was thinking of my own fun time at Bart's, not about war.

I believe I slept through most of the night, but I think I did wake again once. And it was to the sound of my own sobs. And I was clinging to Sherlock as if for dear life, my hands fisting into that grey-white shirt brutally and my face buried in his chest. I tensed when I woke and looked up at him, but his arms came around me and a very soothing baritone voice said: "Go back to sleep, John." I guess I did.

When I woke up the next morning, sunlight was streaming in through the curtains and Sherlock was gone. _Was that a dream? Or did I cry my heart out in my ex-boyfriend's arms tonight?_ God, I was so messed up!


	4. The Five Times Sherlock Lulled John to Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... and the one time he woke him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In tribute to all the "five times..." stories and to all of the amazing Johnlock cuddle fanart.  
> I worship those!
> 
> I'm sorry for the delay, but first there was Christmas and then there was the flu. Hope the chapter is still good, although I finished it with a snotty nose ;).

**Sherlock's POV**

I was lying on my bed, fully dressed and reading up on some things on my phone, when John and his crutch made their way down the stairs. He started to bustle around in the kitchen. I lay my phone down on the nightstand for a moment and steepled my fingers over my mouth thinking. The events of last night had left me... intrigued? Or startled? Or both maybe.

I still couldn't fathom some of the things that had happened (highly unnerving that) and the things I could fathom weren't to my liking really. What I still couldn't see through was his sudden desperate reaction when I'd leaned over him to make sure he was sound asleep. My chest had barely brushed his back when he suddenly turned, gripped my shirt and started crying again (physical proximity was supposed to calm him down, not aggravate his condition!). What I could see clearly, it was written all over him, were the symptoms following psychological trauma. Not all of the symptoms maybe to fill the diagnostic criteria for a post traumatic stress disorder, but most definitely some of them. There were the nightmares and the sudden lack of trust and his limp was at least in part psychosomatic. Some stiffness and limping was to be expected following a fracture like the one he had, but physiotherapy should have improved it to a great extent (his arm and shoulder seemed to respond well to physiotherapy). That and the limp was very pronounced when he was walking, but did not seem to trouble him much when he was standing. And then there was the sleeping medication that wasn't strictly speaking sleeping medication, but an anxiety relieving anti-depressant. And while it is almost impossible to commit suicide with barbiturates these days, it is still very much possible using anti-depressants. Needless to say that John could write his own prescriptions and could have gotten as many pills as he liked. Not that I would have thought him suicidal (not the John Watson I know), but it was the theoretical possibility that I did not like at all.

Reason enough to keep an eye on him.

And since there were the very pleasant smells of ham and scrambled eggs filtering into my bedroom just when I thought this, it seemed that I would be able to keep an eye on him while eating breakfast. Not the worst option. I got up.

I'd half expected to find John bustling around in a dressing gown, but instead found him fully dressed as well. I think I even remembered the dark blue jumper he was wearing, although last time I'd seen it, it had been stretched tight over John's broad well-muscled chest and shoulders. Now it hung on him loosely - a melancholic symbol of what had happened to him.

"Morning", he greeted. His voice sounded a bit subdued and he averted his eyes just a bit too quickly. Otherwise he seemed well-rested and generally looked more healthy than when I found him last night.

I wandered over to where John had laid out a delicious British breakfast on the table in the living room (the kitchen table was out of the question, of course). "I knew I chose the right flatmate." I said letting my eyes roam hungrily over scrambled eggs, ham, tomatoes, beans, toast and jam.

"Did you?" John asked with a rueful little smile while limping over to the table. He set a cup of tea down in front of me, as I sat down and quickly began to shovel food on my plate. Was I really that hungry? _Oh right, didn't eat last night!_ I'd spent half the night in Lestrade's office, had come back late and then heard John yelling as if somebody had attempted to kill him.

John sat as well, sipped his own tea and watched me devour his breakfast with a tiny bit of amusement. Then he took a deep breath and regarded me seriously. "Sherlock", he started to ask in a quiet voice, "last night, after I fell asleep, did I... you know... start crying again?" He looked as if saying the words hurt him. Maybe they hurt his masculinity.

"Oh", I said, looking up from my toast with surprise, "I wouldn't remember. You know me, John, I have a terrible memory for things like that."

He gave me his small lopsided 'yeah right' smile. And I was pleased to see that, instead of pushing the issue, he just reached over to secure some of the beans for himself. It was then that John's left hand started to tremble subtly. He flexed it and balled it up to a fist, then tried to hide it in his lap. I looked at him with a raised eyebrow. _Please! You think I haven't noticed?_ He smiled ruefully and brought his hand back up on the table.

He looked old at that moment. He was of course five years older now than was the John in my memories, but he looked to have aged ten years at least. There was some grey in his sandy hair now and more lines on his face than you would expect from a man of his age. Desperate probably for some kind of distraction, John attempted to make some 'normal' conversation then. "So... um, you have any plans for today?"

"No, not yet." I answered lightly. "You?"

"Me? No, I guess I'll finish unpacking and then I'll watch some bad telly." A short silence ensued, in which John looked first at me and then around the flat pensively. "So... it's Friday, it's half past nine already, but you don't have to be anywhere", he continued. "I don't want to be nosy or pushy or anything, but my curiosity is killing me here, Sherlock. What are you doing, these days?" 

I got very interested in watching the tea swirl in my cup for a moment. Then I looked up at him with a small smirk. "What do you think?"

"I haven't seen you in years, how would I know?"

 _You still know me better than most_ , I thought to myself, but pushed that sentiment aside quickly. Out loud I said: "Humour me, take a guess."

"Well..." he started, while chewing on a piece of tomato. "... you don't have to be anywhere, you have your own little lab... something on a freelance basis?"

"Not wrong", I encouraged. "Go on."

"Hmm, you never wanted that science career that everybody expected you'd go for, but you *were* an outstanding chemist. And you were collecting weird criminal cases from the papers and from the internet, you were even reading up on historic criminal cases. I remember I suggested forensics as a job option."

I nodded. "It was a reasonable suggestion."

"But it's not forensics?"

"No."

"Yeah well, too much routine work for you", he said absent-mindedly. "What about... Private Detective?" And I was pleased to see those dark blue eyes sparkle enthusiastically for a moment.

I smiled to myself a little. John's deductive skills had mostly been limited to the medical realm as far as I could remember. Maybe they extended to people he knew well. "I'm a Consulting Detective. The only one in the world."

"Consulting Detective... so what exactly do you...?"

Now I felt like rolling my eyes again. "When the police are out of _their depth - which is always_ _-_ _they consult me_ ", I clarified.

"And they really come to you?" John wondered aloud. That's what I just said, wasn't it? "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective", he said then with a fond smile. "Sounds good to my ears."

His smile was infectious still. I felt like telling him about last night's case, but Mrs. Hudson chose this exact moment to poke her head through the door. "Sherlock? Dr. Watson? Are you boys decent?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

Since I didn't make a reply (she'd come in anyway), John felt compelled to call out a "Come in!"

"You have to help me, you two", she began and walked into the flat balancing an impressive number of muffins on a too small plate. "Mrs. Turner came over for tea the other day and I made far too many muffins. There's no way I'll eat them all." And with that she picked up one muffin to place it on my now empty plate, while she set the rest down in front of John. After some more tutting about the mess I supposedly made, she left again.

John waited until he heard our landlady's steps on the stairs. "That's it", he said, regarding the muffins with grave seriousness. "I'm sitting next to *you* and people try to feed *me*. I'm in trouble." He looked at me then, very seriously. And we both cracked up laughing.

***

It just so happened that Mrs. Hudson would cook too much lasagne for herself the next day. It was porridge on another day and there were some left-over sandwiches from the shop downstairs the day after that. John smiled at her obvious ploys to feed him and ate up faithfully.

I on the other hand took it upon myself to see to it that John would actually get some sleep. My first attempt to put him back to sleep on his first night in Baker Street might not have been the most successful one, but the second time it actually worked rather well.

John had been living with me for a week maybe. By now I had gathered some data on his sleeping patterns and I knew that his sleep was troubled even when he took his medication. He wouldn't wake up though and wouldn't remember his dreams, which was subjectively a big improvement, I'm sure. Only that he was still very often exhausted instead of well-rested. Therefore John taking a nap on the sofa during the day had become a common sight in 221B. Occasionally he'd crack one eye open to see what I was up to, then go back to sleep. It was like having an overgrown sandy-coloured cat curled up on the couch.

Most of the time his nightmares gave him a reprieve during the day. This one afternoon was an exception though, for when I exited the kitchen to get my laptop, John - who had been sleeping peacefully on the couch - suddenly jerked awake and looked around himself, scared and disoriented.

"Alright?" I asked quietly as not to startle him.

His head jerked around. "Huh? Sherlock... yeah, I'm good." He settled back down and exhaled, rubbing his forehead.

I had put the laptop away subtly and had instead picked up my violin. "I was going to play for a bit", I said, gesturing with the bow. "Do you mind?"

"No no, please go ahead", he said, even if it sounded like a groan.

I smirked. _Let's see if we can put you to sleep._ The tune I started was a very soft one by nature, but I let it drift into a lullaby even more, gratified to see John curl up again and snore softly within minutes.

***

The third time occurred when John came home from his first session of therapy. While he had somehow failed to tell me he had a therapist now (trust issues!), I of course had seen him with a therapist's business card in his hand before. Did he really think he could keep secrets from me now that we were living together? Or did he not bother to tell me, because I would know anyway?

Anyhow, his behaviour was most peculiar when he came back. Aside from a curt mumbled greeting, he didn't utter a word but sat on the couch and stared blankly into space. No eye movement even when I walked through his line of vision.

"John?"

No reaction.

"John!" I said more forcefully. He jumped slightly in his seat. "Are you even listening to me, John?"

"Huh? I'm sorry, what did you say?" He ran a hand over his face tiredly. Definitely needed to sleep, but was too worked up emotionally to relax, quite obviously.

"I wanted your opinion on this, before I put it on the website!" I gesticulated towards my laptop, made my eyes look large and set my lips into a pout. He just had to react to that.

Predictably he held a hand up to appease me. "I'm listening, I'm listening."

"So, I'm preparing this essay on how to tell apart different types of tobacco ash at a crime scene. I was just wondering if I should include something about the chemical structure as background information."

"Oh..."

I picked the most threateningly large book from the shelf and pretended to look for the right page. "This might take a while. Why don't you lie back on the couch?"

He removed his shoes and lay back obediently. And, when I made up the most monotonous lecture I could have thought of, it actually took less than three minutes until he dozed off. Satisfied, I put the book back and sat back down to work on my essay. He'd never have fallen asleep, if I had read out the part on how to tell Gauloises from Marlboro. This bit was quite exciting. 

I was immersed in my work and John slept soundly, when there was a knock at the door downstairs. I lifted my head, but didn't react in time to keep Lestrade from bounding up the stairs and into the flat.

"Sherlock, double homicide with no sign of a break in!" he called out.

This of course roused John. His years of military service had left him with remarkable vigilance. Words indicating danger - like 'double homicide' - could probably wake him out of a coma. "Huh? Wha..?" John looked up with tiny bleary eyes.

"Go back to sleep, John", I said in the deepest, most soothing voice I could muster, since I had found that he reacted to my voice quite well. Seeing that he settled back down, I quickly ushered Lestrade out into hall, closing the door to our flat quietly behind myself.

"Old friend of mine, just got back from military service in Afghanistan." I offered as explanation. Judging from the Inspector's reaction, there might have been a fond little smile on my lips as well.

"And you're taking care of him?" he asked incredulously.

I might as well have told him that I was sleeping with Prince Harry. The look on his face was one of outright shock. He looked me up and down, then his eyes darted back to the now closed door that barred his view of the living room. One could see the wheels turn in his head (slowly!) as he was re-evaluating my sexual orientation, the fact that I *did* have acquaintances and a sociopath's ability to take care of anyone.

I rolled my eyes with emphasis. "You said double homicide. I gather we don't have time for *your* deductions then."

***

The fourth time I had to help John find some sleep was after I supposedly upset him, although I still believe he was in truth upset with himself, which I can understand under the given circumstances.

You see, John's irregular sleeping patterns weren't the only thing that worried me at the time. Worse than that was John's well... inactivity. He was plainly speaking doing nothing - aside from going to therapy and again physical therapy. Aside from that he was almost completely inactive and for John this was highly out of character.

Fact number two about Dr. John Watson: John is a man of action and he's a man with a plan also. All those years ago he could never help himself, he was always doing something and he was always making future plans. You'd always catch him talk about the house he'd have one day or the dogs he'd have one day. John is somebody who works towards certain things, somebody who needs to have a purpose.

I can remember a night where I lay with my head pillowed on his chest tracing his biceps while he was absent-mindedly brushing fingers through my hair. He said he understood my predicament to some extent and that he'd go crazy too, if he didn't have anything useful to do. "Like cosmetic surgery, I could never do that." he'd said. "I'd ask myself every single day: 'what the hell are you doing? Is that the story you wanna tell when you knock on heaven's door one day?'"

"And being in the Army feels useful to you?"

"I'm patching up the ones who really need patching up. So, yes."

That was the John Watson I knew. So, you cannot blame me. I simply had to test the hypothesis that this John Watson, who was sitting across from me at the breakfast table each morning now, really had absolutely no current plan of action.

"John", I said one day.

"M-hm?" He answered, peering at me over the edge of the newspaper he was reading.

"Are you planning to get a dog?"

He lowered the newspaper so he could see me properly. "A dog. Why would I be getting a dog?"

"Because you love dogs." I pointed out.

"I... guess I do?!" He answered slowly and regarded me with a quirked eyebrow. "But I wouldn't be fit to take long walks with the poor creature, would I? And dogs cost money also."

"So, that's what you were doing", I tried to supply helpfully. "You just turned the page with the job advertisements. Were you looking for a job then? To be able to keep a dog?"

"Yes Sherlock", his voice was dripping with sarcasm. "I was looking for a job for a surgeon with a trembling hand." And with that he sprang up from his chair and limped towards the door.

"Where are you going?" I called after him.

"Out. I need some air!" was the gruff response.

And so far my hypothesis stood. No detectable plan.

*

John didn't come back to 221B until late that evening, when I had already retired to my room. I listened to the sounds he made. His limp was even more pronounced and he let himself fall on the couch heavily and with a sigh. He'd turned on the TV, but with all the tossing and turning he did on the couch he couldn't be watching very intently. I would have expected him to retire to his bedroom at some point, but it seemed he was intent on staying on the couch, he just turned down the volume of whatever he was watching as it was getting late.

With a sigh I got up and made my way back to the living room.

"Did I wake you?" he mumbled. Small blood-shot eyes combined with a stiff back and seemingly restless legs - once again definitely tired but not anywhere near sleep.

I didn't reply but instead climbed onto the couch, reaching over and behind him. "There is a blanket behind the couch", I pointed out. "There it is." Once I'd retrieved it, I did my best to squeeze myself in behind him and cover us both with the blanket.

"What you're doing?"

"Watching telly with you." I replied and draped my arm loosely around his middle, mostly because I didn't want that arm crushed between our bodies.

"I think I'm still mad at you", he said sleepily.

"For what?" I asked innocently.

"For making me mad this morning."

"I wouldn't remember", I said softly next to his ear. "You know me, John, I have a terrible memory for things like that."

This time at least, the physical proximity seemed to do what it was supposed to do. His muscles relaxed, his heartbeat calmed down gradually. We both fell asleep.

I woke later that night to the sound of an especially annoying commercial. I opened my eyes slowly and tried to reach for the remote control when I realised that John had again turned in my arms and was now cuddled up against me with his head in the crook of my shoulder. Carefully carefully I reached over and managed to turn off the telly, but froze when John stirred in my arms.

He cracked one eye open, seemed to consider his position and went rigid. "We're still just friends, right?" he murmured.

"M-mh", I confirmed and was pleased to feel John snuggle back in, before his breath evened out again.

***

The fifth time happened once well past midnight, when I myself was fast asleep. It was all very much like on his first night in my flat. John had seemingly woken with a start and a yell that was loud enough to wake me up one floor below. I rolled out of bed, threw on a dressing gown and padded up the stairs.

I poked my head through his bedroom door and looked him over with bleary still half-closed eyes. He was pretty much in the same state that I had found him in a couple of weeks ago. Not losing any time I crawled into bed behind him, slung my arm around him and snuggled up to his back. His heart was beating out of control, but again calmed down somewhat when I hugged him close.

"You tell me a story this time", I slurred. I wasn't awake enough to do it.

"A story?" His voice had a strange pitch since he'd been crying again. "I don't know any good stories now Sherlock."

"Tell me about the snow leopard." I murmured and nuzzled the space between his shoulder blades.

"Huh?"

"You got photos on your laptop. Of a snow leopard."

"Sherlock!" He complained in a less-than-convincing tone. Then he took some deep calming breaths before answering. "We had to get some environmentalists safely over a mountain pass once. They showed us a snow leopard. And gave us some photos and video files. And I guess they gave us at least one peaceful story to tell." His voice sounded calmer again at the end of the sentence.

"They do nature conservation in the middle of a war?"

"Sure they do. You don't put a country on hold for ten years. Life goes on..."

I'm not sure who fell asleep first this time. But since we woke in the morning in the very same position I don't think John moved around a lot in the remainder of the night.

***

Who would have thought then that all of my attempts at physical and non-physical comfort turned out to be only the second best thing to do to facilitate John's healing process? It should have been obvious really, but I found out what worked best accidentally... which means through a little accident.

I had been experimenting in the very early morning hours when (medicated) John was still asleep. Things did not go quite as planned as it turned out that the liquid I'd used to conserve some eyeballs wasn't only inflammable but could explode also when put into the microwave. So explode it did... with a crashing sound loud enough to give me a tinnitus for the rest of the day. I rubbed at my ears and regarded the flames with growing annoyance, then picked up the fire extinguisher and read over the instructions on its side.

Of course the explosion woke John. I had not expected to see him run down the stairs though or to have him pluck the fire extinguisher out of my hands with a dry "Give me that". Mrs. Hudson's feeding combined with physical therapy had done him some good it would seem, since he grabbed the extinguisher with familiar strength and put out the small fire within seconds.

"What the hell are you doing?" he yelled. "Mrs. Hudson is going to kick us out on our sorry asses."

"Don't worry", I replied calmly. "Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister. We have plenty of time to clean this up."

"Clean this up? Are you kidding me, we'd have to replace the microwave and paint the wall, minimum." he barked, still holding the extinguisher with both hands. I watched him, wondering when he would notice.

"Then that's what we'll do." I couldn't help it. This new turn of events had me watching his every move with a bright smile on my lips.

"You're impossible!" He turned back towards the stairs to his room. "I'll get dressed." he called over his shoulder. "And when I come down, I want to see you ready to head out to the hardware store." And with that he continued to stomp up the stairs.

Interesting wasn't it, that he was actually audibly stomping when he shouldn't be able to put weight on his right leg. I wondered if he'd notice and I wondered if he'd actually remember to bring his crutch when he came back down.


	5. The Enigma That is Sherlock Holmes

**John's POV**

When I woke up that morning, I found the flat deserted. Whatever Sherlock was up to, he'd left early. I did consider to just lounge on the couch in my pyjamas until he came back, but no, retired Captain John Watson still had some self-respect to preserve. So I showered, dressed, and tried to do something mildly productive. I started with cleaning up the kitchen a little. With Sherlock being a bit dyslexic when it came to domestic things, I was quickly taking over household duties. But invalid that I was, even that could be a hassle. I still just couldn't hold up my left arm over my head for long. So when my shoulder started to heat up and ache again, after just putting away the dishes, I let the kitchen be and sat down with my laptop.

I checked my emails (nothing, as usual), then with a sigh opened my blog. My unwritten blog. I stared at the blank window hard... but no words would appear. _Right, if your therapist says this will help, then maybe you should make an effort, John!_ I wanted to. Make an effort. After all, if I ever wanted to be a useful member of society again, therapy was my best chance. I knew full well my limp was mostly psychosomatic. I was a doctor god damnit, I'd seen x-rays of my femoral bone, I knew it was actually healing nicely. And by now I was also pretty certain there was no nerve damage causing the tremor in my hand. Had to be post traumatic stress then. I didn't feel stressed or jumpy or overly vigilant, though. And I could watch my hand tremble right now. I felt... empty... and I had way too much time to think. Was that something to write in my blog? Was I supposed to cry my heart out on the internet? No, bad enough I had to cry my heart out to her, that she made me tell her about... my trauma again and again and again, until it all lost its horror, when I actually didn't want to think about it for a split second.

I rubbed my eyes and took a deep breath. Then I sat back and looked around myself. Actually, I couldn't complain, could I? I did have a really nice place to stay (granted there were eyeballs in the microwave), my landlady was somehow intent to bestow just a little bit of Mummy love on Sherlock and on me and then I had this sometimes maddening, sometimes hilarious and sometimes actually very sweet and cuddly relationship with my ex-boyfriend.

_How did that happen anyway?_

Maybe that was a blog topic? Anyone else out there, who has a strange relationship with his ex?

I mean really, he did hate me when we broke up and I can't blame him. And then the next thing he hears from me is that I was wounded in action. You might have expected him to come visit me to ask me why - why I contacted him now and why I acted the way I did when we were still together. You might have expected him to try to find closure. Instead, he takes me in without asking any questions and does his best to cuddle me back to health? I had to figure this out somehow, had to find out what Sherlock actually thought about... well us. Only that Sherlock wasn't the easiest person to talk to about things like that. If he wanted to get back together, he'd probably just grab me one day and kiss me senseless, but he wouldn't want to talk about it. Not that I thought he'd want to get back together! His pride would definitely keep him from being with someone who'd hurt him before. That and Sherlock had a serious muscle fetish and I couldn't quite meet that requirement right now.

I sat there smirking to myself, thinking about how the sight of muscles would make Sherlock look like the proverbial child in the candy store, when the door downstairs was thrown open with enough force to hit the wall. There were heavy footsteps and a groan - a soft sound, but I recognized a sound of pain when I heard one. I picked up my crutch from the floor and got to my feet quickly, just in time to see the door to the flat fly open. In came Sherlock with a bloodied towel pressed to his forehead and another groan on his lips. There was a man with greyish hair behind him, steering him inside.

I looked from one to the other with alarm. "What happened?"

"Our murderer smashed a door in Sherlock's face. He's got a laceration." The other man answered.

"Right..." I probably didn't need to understand that for the moment. I needed to have a look at that wound. I limped over to where Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe now. "Let me see..." I shifted a bit uncomfortably. Since I needed my right hand to hold the crutch, I had to reach up with my left to gently remove the towel from his face. Yep, nasty bleeding laceration right over Sherlock's brow. "Did you apply pressure?"

Sherlock grumbled a confirmation, eyes cast down.

"For at least ten minutes?" I asked.

"We did. On the ride here." his companion answered. Still didn't know who that man was actually - a policeman? Prosecutor? Sherlock's date? He was wearing a rather smart suit, so maybe not a common policeman... My name wasn't Sherlock Holmes though. I wouldn't know until they told me.

"Well, it's still bleeding. So if you came here to ask me, if it needs stitches, then the answer's yes", I said. "Take him to A and E!"

"No", Sherlock groaned again.

"That's what I was trying to do", the other man said, making a helpless gesture.

"I thought you could do it." Sherlock said, somewhat secretively.

"Sherlock", I admonished gently. "I don't have the equipment here." I pressed the towel back in place in the meantime. No need for him to bleed all over the place while we discussed that.

He smirked a little through his grimace of pain. "As a matter of fact, you do have surgical suture thread and local anaesthetics in your bag upstairs." Only now, he looked at me directly, grey-green eyes begging and demanding at the same time.

I shot the man behind Sherlock a slightly accusing look. _Why didn't you take him to A and E right away?_ Then I sighed. "Fine, I guess I have iodine as well. I'll get my bag." I straightened up and headed towards the stairs. "Just a minute."

"Don't worry, I'll get it!" the man offered, somewhat apologetically. "Just tell me where it is."

"In my bedroom upstairs. It's sitting on the bed actually." I instructed. "I was sorting it..."

He sprinted up the stairs, while I turned to look at my new patient. "Sherlock, I have a tremor in my hand." I said quietly.

There was that smirk again. "You'll do it perfectly."

I led Sherlock into the bathroom and sat him down on the toilet, while I wet a clean washcloth. Then I perched myself on the rim of the bathtub and put the crutch down on the floor, glad to finally have the use of both my hands. Sherlock had already tossed the bloodied towel across the room, so I could take a good look at the wound again. I carefully dabbed some of the blood away until Sherlock's companion returned with my doctor's bag. I took it gratefully, opened it up and laid it out on the floor. I snapped on some rubber gloves and then picked up a syringe and a vial with anaesthetics. "This one comes first", I warned. "Close your eyes, if you like."

"Why?"

"Because otherwise you'll see me handle really big needles right in front of your eyes."

That seemed to convince him, he closed his eyes obediently. "Anything else I should do?"

"Oh, you could introduce us." I said while drawing up the injection. I gave the other man an apologetic look. He stood in the doorway to the bathroom now and might have been as puzzled by the whole situation as I was.

"Of course, I'm forgetting my manners", Sherlock answered sarcastically and gestured towards the door blindly. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. This is Dr. John Watson, Army surgeon." The sneer on Sherlock's face died away though, when I gave him the injection. That made him flinch and protest weakly. I rolled my eyes discreetly. _Jesus Sherlock, you're such a child sometimes!_

Lestrade seemed to watch the scene with something like grim amusement. "Sherlock told me you're just back from Afghanistan. I guess you've seen worse than that."

"Yeah, well..." I wasn't going to elaborate on that, so instead I changed the topic while I dabbed at Sherlock's wound with alcohol wads. "So... what is it that happened?"

"Sherlock was at a crime scene with me", the inspector explained. They did actually come to Sherlock for help then. "He had a look at the doors, which had all been locked from the inside, then he started to search the walls and then he deduced loud and clear for everyone to hear that our murderer still had to be in the house and that there might be a hidden door in the wall in front of him."

I couldn't help but chuckle, but quickly composed myself again, because now I actually had to do the stitches. "But did you get him?"

"We did and thank god for that." Lestrade said.

Sherlock had fallen silent during all of this. "Alright?" I asked him. "It's just two more stitches. Won't take long." I added soothingly. Sherlock murmured something that sounded as if he was okay.

"And you two are... old friends?" Lestrade asked with a slightly raised eyebrow.

I looked at Sherlock. His lips were tightly shut. _Right, let me explain everything_. "Um... Sherlock and I were really close, before I had to leave for Afghanistan. And now that I'm back, he's just kind enough to let me stay with him, I guess."

I shot Lestrade a quick little smile. Had he gotten my secret code for 'yes, we were fucking'? Judging from the slightly embarrassed look on his face, I guess he got it. "It's... it's none of my business really", the inspector said and out of the corner of my eye I could see he was raising his hands defensively. "And seeing that Sherlock is in good hands, I'll um... be on my way also." Lestrade turned and left quickly, only stopping to call out a "Get well soon, Sherlock. I'll call you up later." Then he was gone.

I chuckled a little while I finished the last stitch, then sealed off the fresh suture with some iodine. "There, all done." I announced and peeled the gloves off. I sat back to admire my own handiwork.

_First useful thing I've done in about three months._

Sherlock first cracked one eye open, then the other. His hand reached up instinctively to touch that strange new thing over his brow, but I caught it and held it before it could reach its destination. Sherlock frowned at me. "I'm not 'letting you stay with me', John."

I gave him a small smile and squeezed his hand. "I think you are."

***

"Would my doctor advise me against working in a lab today?" he asked me the next morning. I had just settled down with tea and the paper and looked up at him with some surprise. Assuming a positive reply, he already stood there with coat and scarf on. There was a tiny private smile on his lips also. "I'll probably work in the morgue as well."

"In the morgue. Is that a riding crop?"

"Yes. So?"

"With four stitches in you, you don't have to stay in bed", I replied. "But put a plaster on it, wouldn't want it to get infected."

Somewhat surprisingly, he trotted towards the bathroom obediently and came to stand before me again not two minutes later, plaster adorning his brow. "Actually, you should come along!" he said as I regarded the riding crop in his hands with some doubt. He snapped it into his palm experimentally. "I'm going to use the lab at Bart's and you would like to see your alma mater again."

*

"Bit different from my day." I said looking around myself, taking in all the new equipment a lab at Bart's had to offer these days. Yeah well, it had been about twelve years since I'd graduated from medical school. Sherlock had already thrown his coat over a chair and attached himself to a microscope, not really paying attention to what I was saying.

"John? John Watson!" I turned and almost couldn't believe it was Mike Stamford who'd just entered the room, wearing a lab coat.

"Mike... Mike, of course", I stumbled, then remembered to shake his hand. "Sherlock told me you're... you're teaching now?!" God, save for Sherlock's and Mrs. Hudson's company, I'd been a recluse lately. I needed to re-learn how to be social.

"Yes. What about you?" he asked, looking me up and down. "I heard you were abroad, getting shot at. What happened?"

I gave him a rueful smile at that. "I got shot."

He looked me over once more, commiserating. "Come on, let's get a coffee or something", he said, then turned to Sherlock, who was completely immersed in his work by now. "Sherlock, you don't mind me taking your boyfriend for a coffee, do you? I'll bring him back, later!" he called out cheerfully.

Sherlock actually looked up from his microscope startled, while I gesticulated wildly and stammered things like "No no...Mike, we're not..."

*

"I'm sorry for that." Stamford tried to say seriously, but we just cracked up laughing again. The weather was great, so instead of having coffee in Mike's office, we'd gone down to the park and sat there on a bench in the autumn sun.

"Don't worry", I replied swallowing my laughter. "Last time you saw us together, we were a couple. I'm sure Sherlock can see where that assumption came from."

"The look on his face", Stamford shook his head. "I've never seen that listless face anywhere near startled, before."

I had, but surely not in a situation like that. Usually, Sherlock didn't care what other people thought about anything he did. Did he now?

"It's good to see you in good spirits, though", Mike said now, more thoughtfully. "I mean... despite everything." He nodded in the general direction of my leg and the crutch.

"Things could be better and things could be worse, I guess." I replied, regarding that damned crutch with resentment. "At least I'm in good company."

"Hm. He cheers you up, looks after you a bit?" Stamford gave a short laugh and shook his head again. "Some people would find that hard to believe. Pity you're not a couple anymore, I'd like to see the look on some people's faces."

"Sherlock's got a reputation then?" I gulped down the last of my coffee and threw Mike a questioning look. "Yeah well, those people don't really know him, do they?"

"Surely not like you do", Mike confirmed. "I bet you see the best of him. He doesn't treat you like he treats other people."

"That's because I never called him a freak", I said with rising anger. "Come on Mike, this arrogance thing he does, don't you think that's his way to shield himself? 'You call me a freak, so I tell you how much I'm out of your league intellectually'?"

Mike nodded, clearly not wanting to antagonize me. "That's part of it, I'm sure. But you were in love with him, John. You judge him very kindly. Others judge him a lot more harshly and sometimes he just does things that are grist to the people's mills saying that he is a... a... you know."

I pondered that statement for a while, feeling somehow angry with both Sherlock (sometimes he should care about what other people thought of him) and with the enviers and tormenters that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Then I looked back at Stamford. "You don't judge him harshly."

"No. I mean I'm in Academia and I wish I had half his intellect. I don't like everything he does, but he is truly extraordinary. And besides," he gifted me with a smile then, "I remember how much he lightened up when you two were together. There is a loving heart somewhere under all that... that... you know. And I think it's missed you also."

Missed me? After the kind of breakup we had? I turned away for a moment, guilt creeping up on me. Then I took a deep breath. "Are you telling me to look after him also?"

"I'm not telling you to do anything, John. But maybe you should know that he has a tendency to get himself into trouble. Who knows, maybe he actually still listens to you."

***

I kept turning Stamford's words over in my mind for some time after this. And when I sat on the couch the next day, while Sherlock was pacing the flat somewhat restlessly, I couldn't help but wonder... Did others really see a perverse, potentially dangerous sociopath where I only saw a loveable eccentric?

Mrs. Hudson had been bustling in and out of the flat all morning. After acknowledging that I looked a lot better already and trying to tell Sherlock to clean up the kitchen, she'd gone shopping and brought some things back for us. She'd just stowed them away in the fridge and walked past me, when Sherlock cursed loudly and ruffled his own hair in wild frustration.

We exchanged lopsided smirks and raised eyebrows. She was with me on team 'loveable eccentric'.

But I kept watching him for a while. Sherlock was indeed restless. First he picked up his netbook and typed something frantically, then he strode over to the kitchen and started an experiment, then strode back to look for a book - which was quite a difficult task, since there were piles of books on the floor, open boxes half filled with books and books that had been thrown into shelves carelessly - and then he actually stopped his pacing right in front of me. His hair was sticking up in all directions.

"John, if I wanted to dress up as an agent of the Defence Intelligence Staff..." I had just opened my mouth to ask him why on earth he wanted to do that, when Sherlock broke off in mid-sentence. "What?"

"Pardon me?"

"You're watching me, you've been watching me all morning, you're watching me now", Sherlock stated. Then he started to gesticulate as restlessly as he'd been pacing before. "What is it, are there burn holes in my sleeves? Or is it the scar? It's actually a bit..." He reached up to scratch at the still rather fresh suture.

I caught at his arm. "No, don't. Stop that."

Sherlock grumbled. "It's itching, driving me crazy. Must be infected."

"Hm, let's have a look." I meant to get up and felt around for my crutch. To my surprise, though, Sherlock crouched in front of me, so I merely had to reach out and brush his hair away to take a look. "That looks quite alright." I gently touched the skin around the stitches. Didn't feel hot either. "Nope, that's all fine."

I guess I was witnessing another of Sherlock's mood swings, from slightly manic to slightly depressive, for he kept grumbling and made no move to get up again. "There's nothing, John. There's no decent case. And the scar's itching." I smiled sympathetically and ran my fingers through his hair, smoothing it out again.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson put in. She'd just walked back into the flat, newspaper in hand. "I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

There was a knock at the door downstairs and she went down to get it. Sherlock stayed put and grumbled something about Lestrade not letting him in on the case yet.

We both looked up startled, when we saw it was actually Lestrade jogging up the stairs. When I realized the mildly embarrassed look returning to Lestrade's face when he saw us, I quickly withdrew my hand from Sherlock's unruly curls and blushed a bit. Mrs. Hudson, who'd come back in behind the Inspector, winked at me.

_Great, now they all got the wrong idea._

Sherlock got up, probably ignorant of what had just transpired. "There's been a fourth", he stated. "And there’s something different this time." He reached for his suit jacket. "You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" The Inspector asked breathlessly, casting a last side-glance in my direction. Sherlock nodded impatiently. " This one did. Will you come?"

After some bickering around about who was on forensics (someone that Sherlock didn't like apparently) and about Sherlock needing an assistant (really? what for?), my genius flatmate finally promised to follow Lestrade in a cab.

Sherlock waited until the Inspector had reached the front door, then actually leapt for joy clenching his fists triumphantly. "Brilliant! Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!"

Okay... put that on his 'might look like a sociopath' tab. "You shouldn't say things like that in public, you know." I said grimly. But of course he paid me no mind at that moment as he was all but dancing out of the flat.

 _Somebody should look after him_ , I thought, then regarded my own leg and the crutch hatefully once more. _Somebody who can keep up with him._

I sighed and reached for the paper, but then looked up again with some surprise. Sherlock had (silently) come back upstairs and stood there in the doorway, putting his black leather gloves on. He watched me appraisingly for a moment. "Your therapist thinks you've got PTSD" he started, out of the blue. Quite out of the blue actually, because we'd never once spoken about my therapist before.

I rubbed my forehead and groaned inwardly. "Sherlock, what's this about now?"

He sauntered into the room, his eyes glittering secretively. "You're a doctor, a good one, and Lestrade's forensic team won't work with me. But your therapist would probably advise you to stay out of harm's way, so you won't expose yourself to potential triggers or get yourself retraumatized." I found my crutch and got up. He came closer, he came quite close actually. "And you have seen enough, haven't you?" There was the deep soft baritone voice again, asking me this gently. "Injury, violent deaths..."

"Well, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

He smiled. "Wanna see some more?"

"Oh God, yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know where this is going.  
> I might still be open to suggestions, though. ;)


	6. A Study in Pink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the delay. I already had chapter 7 ready, but felt soo uninspired for chapter 6. Hope you like the result anyway ;).

**Sherlock's POV**

I turned the problem over in my head while we were on our way to Brixton in a cab. Ah, and what a problem it was! Beautiful! Serial suicides, an absolute first in the UK's criminal records. Copycat suicides were of course a known phenomenon, at least since 1774 when a series of suicides followed the publication of Goethe's 'The Sorrows of Young Werther'.

 _'Ich schaudre nicht, den kalten, schrecklichen Kelch zu fassen, aus dem ich den Taumel des Todes trinken soll!_ _Du reichtest mir ihn, und ich zage nicht.'_ **

But for the current case there was nothing at all hinting at copycat suicides. There was some chance still that there was a link between the four victims the police had missed, that they'd been part of something that now motivated either the victims to take their own lives or motivated someone else to hunt them down one by one. Possible but unlikely. The victims came from far too different backgrounds, they seemed to have been picked randomly. It was much more likely that we actually had a serial killer on our hands. And serial killers are always hard, because they usually don't have any connection to the victims and there's no motive, save for their own lust to kill. But if this was a serial killer, then it was also a very uncommon one. Serial killers take pleasure from exerting power, humiliating their victims, from living out violent fantasies. This one seemingly didn't lay a hand on them, he even made them take the poison themselves. Why?

I was occasionally brought back from my musings by John, who was asking a number of curious questions about what we were going to do at the crime scene. "You'll find out soon enough, won't you?" I replied with a small smile.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was all but bouncing in his seat, clearly eager to get out of the house and do something. "But what do you need an assistant for?"

I scanned the streets the cab was passing by. We were about to arrive. "You'll see", I said knowingly. The cab came to a halt, I paid the driver and we both got out quickly.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" John asked again.

He was struggling to keep up with me, so I slowed down a little. The police had cordoned off the crime scene with tape. We could see the flashing lights and bustling around of little officers from a distance. And when we got closer there at the tape stood - oh joy - Sally Donovan.

"Hello freak", she greeted. Out of the corner of my eye I could see John glowering at her. Oh, this would be even more fun with him around.

"We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade", I said very politely.

"Why... wait 'we'?" she asked clearly taken aback. "Who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." I turned to John to very formally introduce them. "John this is Sergeant Sally Donovan."

"A colleague. How do *you* get a colleague?" She scanned John from head to toe, making him slightly uncomfortable. "Wait, you're his new flatmate, right? What did he do, did he offer you money to stay with him?" John gaped at her, most probably wondering if he'd misheard.

"That's enough, don't you think?" I snapped.

"Come on, he's gotta be desperate if he stays with you." said she with a dirty grin.

"Not desperate enough to sleep with a married man, though. That's a desperate thing to do, don't you think?" Watching her expression turn into one of shock, I ducked under the tape and held it up for John, who followed somewhat hesitantly.

Donovan fumbled until she finally lifted a radio to her mouth. "Freak's here, bringing him in." She lead the way to the building that held the actual crime scene. I turned and looked around myself - no skid marks, no footprints, just dry and dusty asphalt. When I turned back, Anderson was suddenly blocking my way - looking ridiculous as ever in a light blue overall.

He almost poked my chest with a gloved finger. "This is a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. You and your pet both be careful. Are we clear on that?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Quite clear." I said, then I pointedly inhaled through my nose. "They're wearing the same deodorant. Isn't that romantic?" I asked John while gesturing between Donovan and Anderson.

Anderson glared. "Now look: whatever you’re trying to imply..."

"I'm not implying anything", I replied and headed past Donovan towards the front door. "I’m sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." When I glanced back I could see John peek at Sally's knees while both Scotland Yarders looked on in stunned silence. I chuckled to myself.

"Sherlock", John admonished gently as we entered the building. "Play nice, will you?"

"Why would I?" I growled.

He sighed. "Aren't you getting tired of that - them calling you a freak and you telling them how intellectually superior you are?" he asked in a soft voice.

"They weren't just calling *me* a freak." I said darkly. We were approaching a table with more light blue overalls. "Here, you'll need to wear one of these."

"Aren’t you gonna put one on?" he asked. I looked at him pointedly and watched how John shook his head and mumbled to himself. "Of course not, silly me."

Lestrade approached, wearing the same ridiculous outfit and an impatient expression. "Sherlock", he greeted, then gestured in John's direction. "What's he doing here?"

"He's with me."

"I thought he's a surgeon."

"And *he'll* work with me. Anderson won't."

Lestrade cursed under his breath, but then led us upstairs and into a small room.

I hovered at the door for a moment, took in the scene. We were in a building that should have been renovated years ago, but had then somehow be abandoned and forgotten. The walls had been stripped, scaffolding poles held up part of the ceiling, all the rooms were empty of furnishing. And there in the middle of one of the empty rooms was a woman, lying face down on the floorboards, wearing an alarmingly pink overcoat (late thirties, might work in the media).

I glanced back at John. He stood in the doorway still, an expression of sadness on his face. Good caring John, send him to war and trust him to still care about a complete stranger's death.

I stepped into the room and crouched next to the body. She'd scratched 'Rache' into the floorboards with the fingernails of her left (!) hand. Hm, thinking of suicides and German epistolary novels. Couldn't mean 'Rache' though, clearly she'd come to London with a small overnight bag. Highly unlikely for a fashion conscious woman to travel abroad with a small case like that. 'Rachel' was more likely. I put on some latex gloves and inspected her jewelry (serial adulterer, interesting!), then I ran my fingers over the back of her coat and under her collar, then reached into her pocket to check her umbrella. I got up from the floor and got my phone out, I needed some weather maps. Hmm... Cardiff! I smiled, satisfied.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked with his arms crossed.

"Not much", I smiled. "John, would you take a look?"

John made to move towards the body but stopped when Lestrade cut in. "Sherlock, we do have a whole team outside. And if he's an army surgeon, then he probably knows less about forensics than you do!"

"Which is still more than you know about these suicides", I replied coldly. "Could you leave us alone for a minute?"

The Inspector fixed me with an angry stare. "Two minutes, Sherlock, and not a second longer." he growled and slammed the door shut behind himself.

John smiled at me, somewhat shyly. "He's right, you know? I can patch up a punctured lung, but I don't know the first thing about forensics." He knelt next to the body, painfully trying to make his stiff leg bend the way he wanted it to. "Ok, what am I doing?"

"Help me prove a point." I whispered conspirationally.

"Sherlock, this is a criminal investigation. This isn't about proving any points."

I frowned at him with indignation. But before I could say anything, Lestrade was barging in again. "Ok, I need anything you’ve got. Now!"

I straightened up and regarded the inspector earnestly. "She travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase."

" Suitcase?" Lestrade asked back.

"Suitcase, yes." I replied impatiently. Why did they always have to repeat my own words? "She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up..."

God, he was slow. "Her wedding ring", I pointed out. "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work; look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who _does_ she remove her rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant!" I turned with surprise to see John, still crouched next to the body. His eyes were sparkling, he was looking up at me with... admiration? Why... _Well, he hasn't really seen me in action, yet._ Not really. This was the first time.

I was taken aback for a moment, stumbled over my own words even. "I... she... uhm the case", I said to Lestrade.

"What case? There was never a case, Sherlock!"

No case? Oh, this was good. Good! This was the final proof. These weren't suicides. The murderer must've driven her here, and she'd left her case in the car. Where else could it be? And what was a man (it was most probably a man, female serial killers are rare) going to do with a most likely pink case? He'd need to get rid of it. And all we had to do was to look for a bright pink case!

All my previous indignation and confusion forgotten, I stormed out of the room and down the stairs, calling out to ask if anyone had found a case. Of course no one had. I knew it!

Lestrade called after me. "Sherlock, Sherlock, what on earth? Where are you going?"

"Get on to Cardiff", I called up. "Find out who her family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Rachel? Who's Rachel? And where are you going?"

"Can't you see? It's killings, it's serial killings. Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake. And Houston, we have a mistake!"

"What mistake?"

"PINK!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** "I do not shudder to take the cold and fatal cup, from which I shall drink the draught of death. Your hand presents it to me, and I do not tremble." taken from 'The Sorrows of Young Werther'.


	7. Strange Meetings

**John's POV**

"PINK!"

I watched Sherlock dash down the stairs, ecstatic as he was with his discovery. When he was gone, I looked up to see that people around me looked as incredulous as I felt right then. Then they shook their heads, one or two muttered 'freak', and all went back to their work. Lestrade was busy calling out orders, he also called out to this Anderson guy who had been waiting on the next landing to come up again. They hurried past me without paying any attention to me. Nobody told me to leave either. I hesitated, but then decided that I'd just have to follow Sherlock whatever he was up to now.

With a sigh I started down the stairs again, carefully taking one step at a time. My knee was killing me already. But on top of everything one police officer, who was also hurrying up the stairs, had to bump into me, throwing me off balance. I had to lean into the banisters heavily to keep myself from falling... and felt more ridiculous than ever. What was an invalid like me even doing here?

Outside again, I looked around myself searchingly, but Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Where on earth had he gone off to? I walked up towards the yellow police tape again, unsure if I should wait for him. I mean, Sherlock could be oblivious when he was focused on something, but he wouldn't bring me out here, just to leave me behind... right?

This Sally Donovan noticed me coming her way. "Sherlock's gone", she called out. "He just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?"

She shrugged. "Didn't look like it."

"Right..", I looked around myself again. "Uhm, do you know where I could get a cab? It’s just uhm... well... my leg." She looked at me with a hint of pity and I just felt so helplessly ridiculous again, that I felt tears constricting my throat.

"Uhm... try the main road", she said gesturing down the road lifting the tape for me.

I ducked under it and was heading in the direction she'd gestured to when she called out again. "Sherlock Holmes, he doesn't have friends." I turned around again, my lips in a thin line. "Usually he doesn't", she continued. "So who are you?"

I smiled mirthlessly. "An old friend."

There was a moment of silence while she looked me up and down again. "You're not really his ex-boyfriend, are you?"

"This isn't really your business, is it?" I asked back. There is this old cliché about all coppers being gossipers. After all, who's driving all over town to listen to people's weird stories and complaints? Guess the cliché isn't that far from the truth. Seems that the Detective Inspector shared his knowledge about Sherlock and me with everyone.

"He never mentioned you." _Of course he didn't. Why would somebody as proud as Sherlock tell you about his broken heart when you sneer at him?_ "And you don't seem to know him very well." she added.

"It's been years..." I confessed, although that wasn't her business either. But anger was warring with disappointment and sadness here and I guess I was too confused at this point to keep my mouth shut.

"Listen, I don't know what he was like when you two... knew each other, but nowadays if I was you, I'd stay away from him."

I narrowed my eyes at her, anger rising again. "Why?"

"You know why he’s here?" she asked. "He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what?" she asked, somewhat triumphantly, as if she was going to explain something that only she'd understood so far. "One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day..."

I held up a hand. "Stop!"

"But..."

"No, I don't wanna hear it."

"So you think you know him better than that?" she asked crossing her arms over her chest.

"I'm not sure about that right now. But I'm quite sure that *you*don't know him. You..." I pointed at her, seething with anger. "... know nothing about him!"

***

I made my way to Brixton High Road with my head spinning. I noticed dimly that there was a phone ringing, but I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts to really pay attention. So Sherlock, my Sherlock who'd once been a vulnerable twenty-something with a substance abuse problem, who'd clung to me for dear life during long nights of withdrawal, who took me in when I came back from war, who I'd cuddled with on the couch last week... was thought to be a sociopath and a potential serial killer? My Sherlock could tell that a woman had a string of lovers from looking at her jewelry.

_What do I actually know about him?_

There was a phone ringing again. I turned to my left. It was a payphone in a fast food restaurant. When an employee made to pick up, the ringing stopped. I kept walking, looking for a cab. When I headed in the direction of a phone box, the phone inside started ringing. _Strange coincidence._ I opened the door, got in and picked up. And this was the starting shot to the most surreal experience I'd had in quite a while.

First, a mysterious voice on the phone told me they had the power to control all the CCTV cameras around me, then a sleek black limousine pulled up. "Get into the car, Doctor Watson", the voice ordered. "I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." I wondered briefly if I knew that voice, but it did sound slightly artificial, so some kind of device was probably used to distort it. So I got in the car and sat next to a... well quite attractive young woman, who was probably there to watch me - only that she seemed to ignore me completely. Was is 'humiliate John Watson' day and somebody had failed to tell me? The car came to a stop inside of an abandoned warehouse. And there stood a tall elegantly dressed man, leaning nonchalantly on his umbrella. I almost doubled over when I recognized him.

 "Mycroft? Is that you?"

"John", he acknowledged. "It's been five years. Surely it's not that hard to recognize me."

"You lost weight." I answered acidly.

"Just my brother's kind of humour, but please have a seat." He used his umbrella to gesture to a plain armless black chair in front of him. "The leg must be hurting you."

"I'm fine", I lied. Actually my leg was killing me. I just didn't feel like admitting to it after I just got kidnapped. "Mycroft, what the hell is this?" I gestured to the empty warehouse we stood in. "You took a year of my life. And you know", I added while limping towards him, "you could have phoned me. On my phone. Or I guess you could have dropped by, paid us a visit."

"So it is 'us' again, is it?" Mycroft asked with a smug little laugh.

"You didn't seriously bring me out here to ask me that." I said incredulously. "If you're curious about Sherlock's relationship status, maybe you should ask him."

"He wouldn't answer me, I'm afraid." Mycroft answered, lifting his chin a little. "As he might have told you, we have what you call a difficult relationship nowadays."

I gave a short laugh at that. "I wonder why that is."

"You seem to find this all very amusing, John. I did wish to have an earnest talk with you, though." Mycroft gave me a look that was probably meant to convey some regal seriousness. "My brother is playing a dangerous game and I wish to know... I need to know, if you're just going to play this game with him or if I can count on you to care about his safety as well."

"Of course I... what are you trying to say?" _Careful John, he's laying a trap and you're walking right into it._

" I worry about him, John. Constantly."

"And why is that?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could. But when Mycroft actually looked at his own shiny Italian shoes and started to chew on his lip, I couldn't help it. "Mycroft", I pressed. "Why are you worried?" _Damnit, he is manipulating you!_

He looked up then, regarding me seriously, with a note of anger even. "Do you think my brother is very subtle or discreet?" he asked. "When he goes round, playing detective? People have noticed him already. People you wouldn't want to notice."

"Who?"

"I'm afraid, I cannot say."

"Then what are you or what am I going to do about it?"

Mycroft poked something on the floor with his umbrella, before answering. "I thought we might cooperate. For the sake of Sherlock's safety. Now that you live with him, you're privy to information that I would miss... with the means available to me. Information that might be important. To keep him safe. Nothing indiscreet", he assured me. "Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

I gaped at him for a moment. "You want me to... my god." My confusion and my own worry about Sherlock (which he'd planned to exploit mercilessly) all gave way to anger. White hot anger. "You have the nerve to ask *me* to spy on Sherlock? For *you*?" I wanted to yell at him, but held myself back. "*I* still have a bone to pick with you, Mycroft."

"I cannot imagine why." he answered very coolly.

"Oh, let me remind you then. Five years ago, I came home from a long day at the hospital, to find someone sitting in my darkened living room... someone who drove all the way up to Birmingham to confront me, to ask me what my intentions were with his little brother. Now that I think about it, the whole situation was quite surreal, just like this is now." I hadn't thought about all of that in quite a while. But now the memory came back vividly and with it the grudge I'd been holding. And I finally got the chance to get it all out. "You made me confess that I was hiding my relationship with Sherlock from my superior officers. You made me promise I'd talk to him, which I was going to do."

Mycroft still regarded me in a very cool and detached way. "You didn't though."

"I guess someone beat me to it."

"There was no time." he said, as if explaining something that was quite obvious.

"No time? No time before what?" I was almost yelling now. "Before I got my marching orders? Oh, of course you knew that before I did. Then why, Mycroft? Why do this when you already knew I'd be out of the picture, soon?"

He squinted at me. "It seems to me that you spent some time thinking about it. What do think what my reasons were?"

"You still think this was good for Sherlock, don't you? You think you protected him by giving him a reason to hate me, before I had to leave. So he'd be the one to break up with me, so he wouldn't suffer as much."

"Good. Good reasoning, Doctor Watson." he said as if praising a child... or a dog. "You see then that I had a very good reason to act as I did."

Did he really expect me to agree with him here? "Mycroft, do I have to spell this out to you? Sherlock and I had the worst possible break-up. If I had not made it back, and I got quite close to not making it back, then Sherlock would have to live with the fact that his last words to me were 'get out of here'. And you still think you did him a favour with that?"

There was a long-stretched moment of silence in which we simply glared at each other. He tried  to stare me down. He didn't succeed.

Then there was a mock smile on his lips suddenly. "Have you encountered Sherlock's homeless network, yet?"

His what? I looked at him quizzically, but didn't do him the favour to reply.

"So you haven't. When you do, ask yourself how a once brilliant science student from a privileged family came to acquire one." He fixed me with another cold stare. "You have thought about your own hurt feelings, extensively", he emphasized the word with distaste. "But tell me John, have you ever tried to picture the time after you left? Have you thought about what you left behind?"

I swallowed. I swallowed hard.

"You bear a responsibility towards him", he said pointing his umbrella at me accusingly. "Now tell me John, will you act on your responsibility?"


	8. Fight me, Kiss me!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm slow. Sorry again for the delay and thank you guys for bearing with me. ;)
> 
> I also have to thank Ariane DeVere for her great transcript of A Study in Pink - very helpful!  
> http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html

**Sherlock's POV**

I stretched out on the sofa and pressed another nicotine patch into my arm. I needed to think, to really properly think! As of late I was far too easily distracted. Back at Lauriston Gardens I even forgot to explain my deductions about Cardiff and about the woman's case to Lestrade - knowing that he had a tendency to not believing me when I didn't walk him through it all step by tiny little step. What had me so distracted? John? John's ardent blue eyes sparkling with admiration? Had I ever seen admiration there? Tenderness yes, protectiveness yes, bemused affection yes, but admiration? And here I was, distracted again.

_Think! Think properly!_

The nicotine wasn't getting into my system quick enough. I flexed my arm and applied more pressure, clenching and unclenching my fist several times until finally a relaxing wave hit me. This was when John came home.

"Hey sorry, just read your texts on the way up", he started to apologize. "Why would you write 'dangerous'?" Then he fixed me with a couple of pointed glances - my arm, my posture, my face. "What are you doing?" he asked with a slight note of alarm. John in doctor mode, that was something I had seen before.

"Nicotine patches", I said, now utterly relaxed, and presented my forearm to him. "Help me think. It's just impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days."

"Hm. Is that three patches?" he asked, calmly now.

I steepled my fingers under my chin. "It's a three patch problem." And it was. All the victims were found in places they had no business being. The murderer took them there in his car. But how did he make them get into the car? At gunpoint? No, two of them had been taken in broad daylight, in central London at that. Offering them a free ride? No, three of them were high-earning professionals. And how did he make them take the poison? At gunpoint? No, this one was clever.

John brought me back from my musings. "Sherlock? I... I just ran into Mycroft."

I groaned. "What did he want? Did he tell you to get me off the case?"

"No, I... he..." John was fumbling for words - curious. Then he sat down on a chair facing the sofa.

I turned my head to watch him. John wasn't looking at me, but staring at his feet. He was leaning forward, his hands were clenched together between his knees, his back was stiff and he was licking his lips (nervous, wants to talk about something). "Did he offer you money to spy on me?" I asked.

"Money?" He shook his head. "No."

True, money (as the most simple of motivations) is what Mycroft would offer strangers. He wouldn't use money to try to manipulate someone he knew more about. I tried to picture the conversation and smirked to myself. "You told him to piss off."

John remained silent. Good caring *obsessively* loyal John hesitating to confirm he'd rejected whatever offer had been made. I sat up on the couch, narrowing my eyes. "John! Tell me you *did* tell him to piss off!" _What on earth has Mycroft said to you?_

He snapped out of whatever he'd been thinking about. "Yes... well, not with those words exactly, but I told him I wouldn't spy on you." I squinted at him suspiciously, while John rubbed his forehead (deep frown, eyes looking small - headache!). "That's not the point though", John continued. "Sherlock, there's something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you a long time ago. I think it's what I wanted to tell you, when you came to see me in hospital." To my utter surprise, John reached out and took my hands between his, suddenly making eye contact again, his gaze burning right into me. "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you, Sherlock. And we should never have parted the way we did. It was my fault and I'm sorry."

I stared at him. Then I jerked my hands away as if scorched. "No... no, no, NO!" I jumped up from where I sat and started to pace, gripping my own hair to... get this out of my head, to focus again.

"Sherlock, I mean it", he tried again gently.

"No!" I yelled and John fell silent. I'd skin Mycroft and then I'd strangle him - manipulating me, manipulating John, ruining everything! Now I'd have to watch John closely until I could rule out the possibility that he had in fact taken Mycroft's offer, whatever had been offered.

"Please Sherlock, just once let's talk about all of this."

"John", I groaned, holding my own head. "I'm on a case. I can't think about this now." But I couldn't stop it, the whirlwind in my head - bringing up all the pictures I didn't need to see right now. John looking at me with admiration, John in my arms on the couch, John looking guilty, because Mycroft had successfully manipulated him, John with a letter in his hands, John leaving...

John looking guilty... why? Because Mycroft had indeed talked him into something... or because Mycroft had used guilt when trying to manipulate him? I turned to John again and looked at him closely. "Tell me again!" I ordered.

"Huh?"

"Tell me again, you're not spying on me."

He sighed but looked me straight in eye, unwavering. No signs of nervousness now. "No Sherlock, I'm not and I will not. If I owe you anything then it's loyalty. And I surely don't owe Mycroft anything."

Of course, of course that's what Mycroft would tell him! Mycroft blamed my becoming a consulting detective on John to some extent. When I was out gathering information in the worst parts of London, when I joined a secret fight club to polish up my self-defence skills, my brother blamed it all on John. Now I was thinking straight again! And surely it was that realization that made a red ball of warmth bloom inside my chest.

I ruffled my own hair again to tried to get back on track. I'd texted John, I'd asked to him to come here, because... right! "I... I... need you to send a text." I said, somewhat distracted still.

John blinked. "A text? And who am I texting?"

"Irrelevant. It's for the case." I answered, remembering what I had actually wanted to do. "On my desk there’s a number."

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ok, good we finally had this conversation." He sounded more tired than sarcastic. "What's wrong with your phone, anyway?" he asked, but was already getting up to retrieve the number.

"My number's on the website. Always a chance it will be recognized." I breathed in and out to collect myself. _Think and think properly!_

In the meantime John picked up the small piece of paper that I'd taken from the luggage label and read. "Jennifer Wilson... hang on, wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Just enter the number and these words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

"You blacked out?"

"No", I snapped, irritated. "Have you sent it?"

"Yes... yes."

We didn't look at each other for a moment... and then we did. There was that rueful smile on his face that I knew so well. "This is important, John", I said calmly again. "Please, let's both try to focus."

He nodded. "Ok."

I gave him a short nod of my own. Then I dashed into the kitchen where I'd left the case. On my way back I grabbed a chair and set it down between our armchairs and flung the case down on top of it.

John staggered when his brain was finished processing the case's colour and its meaning. "That’s ... that’s the pink lady’s case. That’s Jennifer Wilson’s case."

"Yes, obviously. And no, I did not kill her."

"What? I... I never said you did." He wouldn't sit down, but instead stood where he was, looking at me wide-eyed.

I waved it off. "It's a logical assumption..."

"Jesus, Sherlock..." He was rubbing his own forehead again. "You have to be more careful!"

 _And you don't have to lecture me!_ "Why? So you won't think me a killer?" I asked provocatively.

"Of course *I* wouldn't think you the killer", he answered more loudly. "But other people already do. Sergeant Donovan... she wouldn't put it past you."

"I don't care what other people think about me!" I yelled.

He yelled back. "Maybe I still do!"

There was a moment of long-stretched silence. Then John's mobile started buzzing where he'd put it down on the arm of his chair. 'Withheld number' the display said. 

***

"I can't believe you made me text a murderer", John sighed, as we were walking down the road towards Northumberland Street. There was no accusation in his voice anymore. It sounded as if he'd resigned himself to whatever was going to happen now. "You really think he's stupid enough to come to that address?"

"Oh, I think he’s brilliant enough, John", I said quietly, not wishing to disturb the frail ceasefire we'd reached either. "The brilliant ones are always desperate to get caught, to tell their story."

"To tell their story? You mean... to get recognition?"

"Applause. Appreciation. At long last the spotlight. That’s the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience."

John looked at me then, pointedly and with a lopsided smirk on his lips. "Yeah... I guess."

I smiled to myself, but since he was following behind me now, he never saw it. "Here it is", I said gently when we'd reached Angelo's. I opened the door and held it open for him. Might as well try some civility. A waiter I knew, Billy, greeted us and led us to my regular table by the window. I gestured towards the road outside: " Twenty-two Northumberland Street is over there. We need to keep our eyes on it."

This was when Angelo came over. We shook hands. Then he grabbed my shoulders jovially and related the story of how I got him off a murder charge two years ago. John was clearly both pleased and completely confused by that story, but he looked at me again with... fondness? Enough fondness actually to make me look away for a moment and fumble with the menus that Angelo had laid out before us. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free", Angelo offered then. "On the house, for you *and* for your date." I looked up cautiously to monitor John's reaction to this.

"But I'm... not his date." John said quietly, then shrugged his shoulders, more mentally than physically. You could tell by the tiny movement his shoulders made when he thought about shrugging his shoulders. When Angelo actually went as far as to set a candle down on the table with the comment "It's more romantic" and a funny wiggle of his eyebrows, John actually snorted.

"You think he's gonna serve heart-shaped pasta?" John asked chuckling. I wish I could deny it, but seeing his face light up again let the warmest sentiment bubble up in me. It was a great mood lightener after our mini fight. "Or a bright pink cocktail with two straws?" Now I was chuckling at the image he'd put in my head.

"You told him about us?" he asked then.

I was watching the road outside by now, but shook my head. "Nope."

"He sees you with a lot of other guys, then?"

That made me cross my arms over my chest and answer with a slightly annoyed "No." _Please don't, John. Please don't start anything again._

Realizing that this joke was going awry (if it had been a joke and not thinly veiled curiosity), John shut his mouth. The questions were written all over his face, though.

"No John, I'm not bringing dates here", I replied with a sigh. "I consider myself married to my work these days. I'm not doing 'dates' anymore." I said with a healthy amount of disdain.

He was watching me searchingly, but didn't say anything. Still I found my gaze flicker back and forth between his face and the road outside. There was this look of guilt again (thinking probably that my lack of dates was his fault somehow) and then... curiously the tiniest flush crept up his throat and his pulse in his jugular vein picked up a bit - that was a sexual thought (thinking back to our weekends together?). And then a question mark all but hovered over his head.

I pressed my hands to the side of my head again. "John, please..." I moaned. "Yes, I do enjoy sex and no, I don't *need* it. Please stop distracting me! I'm on. A. Case."

"Hey, it's all fine." he said in an appeasing way and then actually reached over to take my hand. "I have no right to nose around in your love life and I'm in no place to give out relationship advice, ok? Whatever you choose to do, it's all fine." I looked at our joined hands, mute. If he thought this small gesture of physical comfort would calm me down, he was sadly mistaken. My heartbeat accelerated and the thumb that was stroking my hand absent-mindedly all but sent a shiver down my spine. I was taken back to a tiny student apartment, sitting on my bed, John's hand on mine. Same physical reaction. _Damnit!_

Then movement outside caught my eye. "Look across the street. Taxi." I said quickly and snatched my hand away - thanking our murderer mentally. "Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out." The passenger in the back seat was turning his head, looking our way searchingly.

I got to my feet, grabbing my coat and scarf, and rushed outside. When I got out into the street, the passenger signalled the driver to move. Could we catch him? Oh yes, we could! The traffic was terrible at this hour. I focused, calling up a mapfrom my mind palace, calculating the route we could take to cut him off. And then I broke into a run, the thrill of the chase coursing through me. But even more thrilling was that John was following at my heels - completely forgetting about his psychosomatic limp. And when I jumped from one rooftop to another and John took the leap right after me, I couldn't help myself. A mad grin broke out on my face and my laughter rang through the night, while we were still hunting down a serial killer.

***

I actually think that grin was still in place when we finally made it back to 221B. John threw open the door and closed it firmly behind us. We both got rid of our coats (John hung his up properly of course, while I draped mine over the nearest surface available) and then sank back against the wall, catching our breaths.

"That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done." John panted.

"And you invaded Afghanistan."

John giggled adorably then, the grin on his face infectious as ever. It had me chuckling along before I knew it. "That wasn't just me."

_Oh John, you are amazing. They send you to war, they utilize you as long as they can and then they throw you out into the street when you're bruised and battered and not utilisable anymore. And all you do is to remain the same loyal, caring, protective John Watson with all your stubborn sweetness. You're too stubborn even to have a normal brand of PTSD._

I turned to look at him. And then I had my hands pressed into the wall on both sides of his head. He looked up at me like the proverbial deer in the headlight for a second, before I bent down to capture his lips. The kiss was a bit one-sided, though. John barely reacted, so I drew back to look at him. There was confusion on his features, but no repulsion. Pupils dilated? Oh yes! I bent down again and this time he brought a hand up to first caress my cheek and then tangle in my hair and he kissed me back as if he'd been thirsting for it. His mouth opened up for me beautifully and I thrust my tongue in, while one of his hands loosened the buttons of my suit jacket and explored my chest. When it brushed over a nipple, I moaned into the kiss.

John drew back then and looked at me with wide eyes and glistening lips. "But... married to your work?" was all he could manage to say.

I chuckled and leaned down again to kiss and nibble at his neck. "I'm cheating."

He held my head and exposed his neck even more. His pulse had quickened and he was out of breath for several reasons. "Now... now we had our first fight... before our first kiss." he said between taking gasping breaths. "You think that's a bad sign?"

I bit down harder which made him gasp more loudly. Then I took hold of both his hands, our fingers intertwined, and pressed them into the wall above his head. "That, my dear Watson, is irrelevant. You will be with me on more cases. You'll be with me on every case." _Mine._

"I... but... says who?"

I stole another sweet short kiss from him. Then I nodded towards the entrance. "Says the man at the door." John turned his head towards it just as someone (Angelo of course) knocked on it three times. John opened up and let Angelo hand him his crutch, before he turned back to me with a look of complete adorable confusion. I smiled at him and leaned back against the wall again. "Come here", I whispered. And he was coming back into my arms, his hands gripping the lapels of my jacket, our lips gravitating towards one another once again... when, as if on cue, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat, frowning and with trembling hands.

Her voice was quivering (tears?). "Sherlock, what have you done?"

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments: I need some, gimme some! ;)


	9. That stuff will kill you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there. I'll wrap this up soon, promise. ;)

**John's POV**

Sherlock rushed up the stairs and I was right behind him. But my head was spinning still with all that had happened in just the last ten minutes. Obviously, chasing after a London cab could cure a psychosomatic limp and obviously my ex (?) saw no problem in watching that happen without saying anything. And something (out of all the insane things that happened today) had inspired him to kiss me. And what a kiss! My heart was racing still and my neck was tingling where Sherlock's teeth had been. And my cock was twitching just a little bit, stating his interest in continuing where we'd left off.

And in that state exactly, I entered a room full of Scotland Yarders. I watched gaping as people opened drawers and cupboards and put things in boxes and it struck me that I wasn't even sure if Sherlock had left a mark on my neck.

I'm sure Sherlock was shocked, too... for a split second. But he recovered quickly and planted himself in front of Lestrade who was lounging in Sherlock's armchair. "What are you doing?" he barked.

"I knew you’d find the case, Sherlock. I’m not stupid", the detective answered placidly.

"You can’t just break into our flat!" Sherlock shot back, indignation very clear in his voice.

"And you can’t withhold evidence", Lestrade said, gesturing over the bright pink case that lay openly on a kitchen chair right in front of him. "And I didn’t break in. It's a drugs bust."

That gave Sherlock pause. Actually, he looked to be quite affected by that accusation. A surge of protectiveness ran through me and before I knew it, I stood between him and the detective inspector. "A drugs bust?" I asked, pointing my finger at Lestrade. "You think you can throw his past in his face? You think you can bully him because he had a problem when he was twenty-five?"

I noticed dimly how Sherlock cleared his throat nervously. "John..."

"He's been clean for years!" I emphasized. Lestrade gave a short bitter laugh.

And suddenly Sherlock moved over to stand very close to me, biting his lower lip. "John, you probably want to shut up now."

I turned to him, locked eyes with him. He held my gaze for a long moment, silently pleading with me. Begging my forgiveness? Asking me not to make a scene? "Sherlock!"

"John please..."

"You... you... when were you going to tell me?" I was conscious that heads were turning our way.

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. "There is nothing to tell you. I am clean." With an ever graceful gesture he patted his arm where I knew the nicotine patches were sticking to his skin. "I don't even smoke."

Behind us, Lestrade got up from the chair and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Sherlock, all you gotta do is help us properly and I'll stand them down. Listen, we found Rachel."

Sherlock tore his eyes away from me, all ears suddenly. "Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter", the inspector's rough voice declared.

Sherlock and his massive intellect latched onto the puzzle instantly. Most probably he'd already forgotten what happened between us half a minute ago. He rattled down ideas, questions and suggestions in record speed. "You need to bring Rachel in!" he told Lestrade then. "We need to question her. *I* need to question her."

"Can't do that. She's dead." Lestrade answered dryly. Again, Sherlock started with a list of questions logically succeeding this new information, wondering aloud if Rachel's death could be connected to her mother's, but the detective stopped him shaking his head. "Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest hearing that and paced back and forth. "No... that's not right. Why would she make the effort to scratch a stillborn daughter's name into the floorboards with her fingernails. She was dying, it would have hurt..." Then like a whirlwind he turned round to face me again, his eyes burning with a fire that I had never seen before Lestrade had to come to our flat (was it only this morning?) to ask for Sherlock's help with these serial suicides. "You came close to dying!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "John, you need to remember", he said laying his hands on my shoulders. "In Afghanistan, when you were shot, right before you lost consciousness - you must have, you would have passed out with the blood loss - what did you say, what would you have said?"

I stared into bright sparkling grey-green eyes. And I had no words. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Lestrade's mouth hanging open. People stopped what they were doing and fell silent. I don't know what Sherlock read on my face then, but he carefully let go off my shoulders and backed off. He was shifting from foot to foot in a somewhat apologetic way and cast a quick glance over the present Scotland Yarders.

"Sherlock", someone said timidly. It was Mrs. Hudson who stood in the doorway. "I think the doorbell isn't working", she said quietly, clearly conscious of the weird silence in the room. "Your taxi's here."

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away", he replied brusquely and started pacing again, his hands in prayer pose before his mouth. "I need to think..."

Slowly people were going back to their work, so hopefully nobody noticed me actually collapsing on the couch. My knees felt weak and my head too heavy for my shoulders. I rubbed at my temples to fight the headache that was coming on. He had no idea what happened... what I was actually thinking while bleeding out lying on my back in that goddamn ravine, knife in hand... what I was going to do...

' _Forgive me', I would've said._

I lifted my head in time to witness Sherlock having another brilliant moment, but things seemed to happen far away, as if I was watching from a distance. _Focus, John! You need to register at least what he's up to now._

"She was clever, clever, yes!" he ranted. "She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him!" With that he jumped over to where I'd left the luggage label on my chair earlier that day, picked it up and hurried to get his small netbook. "Oh, I’ve been too slow. She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone. It's got GPS, it can be tracked down. We just need her email address, which is on the luggage label, and a password to enter her account. And all together now, the password is?"

"Rachel", Lestrade finished, standing behind Sherlock with his arms crossed.

"And the phone is...", Sherlock looked around the room bewildered. "... here."

Lestrade took a look at the screen as well and then called out to his people to search for a phone also, a probably pink phone. In the meantime Sherlock got up and stood in the middle of the room, with his own phone in hand. There was an unreadable expression on his face, as if he was remembering something or realizing something. Then he gravitated towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade sounded close to infuriated.

"Sherlock? You okay?" I called out and he turned to me, giving me a quick once over.

"Fine. I'll just pop out." he said distractedly and walked away.

Lestrade went over to the window. "He's getting in a cab." He threw his hands up in the air in a helpless gesture. "What on earth is he up to now? Why did he have to leave?"

I still sat slumped into the couch running a hand over my own short hair. That was it, I didn't know what to think anymore. Sherlock could be the most caring friend and the least sensitive jerk, obviously - whatever mood struck him. One moment he kissed me, the next moment he saw no problem with poking around in my emotional wounds. Sherlock had gone back to doing drugs... I shook my head with resignation. "You know him better than I do."

Lestrade stood before me with his hands on his hips for a moment. Then he exhaled and looked at me with something coming close to pity. "I’ve known him for five years and no, I don’t."

That made me look up again. "Five years straight?" Curious.

"Hm, pretty much. I... wish I'd known... you know that he had someone... and that that someone was in Afghanistan. It explains one or two things, I guess." The inspector clearly wasn't very comfortable talking about this. He was scratching his head and that mildly embarrassed look had returned to his face. "I always thought that he was I dunno... grieving... or missing someone."

I gave him a faint sad smile.

"No, it's true", he assured me. "He was in a dreadful state when I first met him - high, unwashed, feverish. And there he stood, trying to consult me on my own investigation. 'Why should I listen to a bloody junky' I asked him. 'I'll get off the drugs, if you let me in on the case.' he said. 'I owe it to an old friend'."

I looked at him with disbelief.

"His words exactly! Of course, I thought he was a bloody lunatic."

I gave a short laugh. "And what do you think now?"

He looked at me with sincerity. "I think Sherlock Holmes is great man. And I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." He gave me a nod and a small smile, then he gathered his troops and called off the search. One by one they cleared out.

I sat there pondering for a while, until some beeping from Sherlock's notebook attracted my attention. There was the map on the screen still showing the location of Jennifer Wilson's phone. It was still close to Baker Street but getting away... It was moving.

***

I jumped into a cab as well, calling out weird directions - Sherlock's notebook in one hand, my phone in the other. "No, Detective Inspector Lestrade", I spoke into the phone, trying to remain calm. "I *need* to speak to him. It’s important. It’s an emergency. Tell him it's John Watson calling." They didn't take me very seriously. I sat back feeling metal at the back of my trousers. The gun had a strangely steadying effect on me. The notebook kept beeping and I kept translating the movement on the screen into directions. "Er, left here, please. Left here."

_I'll get you, Sherlock. I'll get you out of there. That's what I owe you._

***

Roland-Kerr College. There were lights on here and there, a cleaning company's van was parked outside... and the cab, the cab that Sherlock must've taken when he left Baker Street. It was the cab that we'd chased after outside of Angelo's, I'd memorised the number.

Twin buildings loomed in front of me, twin entrances... a fifty-fifty chance that I'd take the right one and get to Sherlock in time and no way to improve that chance. I picked one and started running. I ran down endless halls, opened doors, kept running, opened another one... until movement caught my eye... movement on the other side. They were in the other building. I'd chosen wrong. There was the cabbie and there was Sherlock, with a pill on his lips.

"SHERLOCK!"


	10. We can't kiss at a crime scene!

**Sherlock's POV**

I sat on the steps of the ambulance they'd called in. Who the paramedics were supposed to take care of really, would remain their little secret since I was in perfect health and the cabbie had died even before I'd called Lestrade.

I tried to picture it again, the moment the shot had sounded. I needed to replay it as accurately as possible. I'd stood with my back to the window. (Out of all the possible scenarios, a sniper had not occurred to me or I would not have stood with my back to a window). My body hadn't covered that of our serial killer, so the sniper had a clear shot. I'd heard the glass shatter the same instant the cabbie was hit. I'd stumbled backwards startled and dropped the pill (the pill that I was holding to my lips, seemingly in danger - might be important). I'd stared at the bleeding body incredulously for a moment and only then I'd turned round. Of course the marksman was gone by then. The open window on the other side was more than enough indication that the shooter had been in the other building. A very very precise shot across that distance and through a double-glazed window on our side.

At the same time, another scene was replayed in mind without me having much control over it. It was John and me, back in Baker Street, my hands on John's shoulders and my... maybe indiscreet question about his last words hanging in the air. I shall never forget that look on his face, unless I manage to delete it. His eyes were downcast, his brows knit and his mouth opened slightly, only to be pressed together to create a thin line - a look of pain. But at the same time his hands were clenching into fists and the muscles in his back and shoulders tensed as if he was getting ready to pounce or to get his hands around my throat. I'd seen hostility before, I'd seen it directed at me before, but... not from John. Not him.

I sighed. I was more than used to handle several trains of thought at the same time, but this was interfering! Why couldn't I focus? Why couldn't I stop thinking about... losing John? I sighed again. Of course, I was far from believing in anything like 'destiny', but if the past was a reliable predictor for the future, then I'd lose John for good one day. And I'd lose him with harsh words standing between us... or harsh glances. This was the second time it could have happened. An irrational thought, of course. I wasn't going to take that pill *and* had I died here, I wouldn't care much about anything right now. And still... _I can't lose him. Not again._

An orange blanket was draped over my shoulders from behind. _A blanket, really? And how is the blanket going to help?_ Lestrade walked over. "Why have I got this blanket?" I asked him with annoyance. "They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock", he explained patiently.

"I'm not in shock", I grumbled. Lestrade grinned.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs."

I rolled my eyes. "So, no sign of the shooter?"

The detective shook his head grimly. "Cleared off before we got 'ere. Seems that he wiped his fingerprints off that window also. Well, a serial killer would have had enemies, I suppose. Someone could have been following him but...", he shrugged, "got nothing to go on."

It was my turn to grin. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

He looked at me with his hands on his hips. "Okay, gimme."

I stood up, straightened myself. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman, a fighter! His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle..." And/or an emotional attachment? "You’re... you're probably looking for a man probably with... with a history of military service..." I stumbled over my own words while my eyes searched the scene. There he stood, unassuming as always, looking as if he'd stumbled into all of this accidentally. The one person that would have a clear motive to follow not the killer but me.

"Sherlock, what is it?" Lestrade asked suddenly. "Are you alright?" Then he started to turn to see what I was looking at.

I jumped at that, gesticulating wildly. "No! I mean... no, I don't feel so good. You know, ignore me. Ignore what I said! It’s the... shock talking." _Strategy, quick, something to get away._ "In fact..." I settled on turning the biggest most pityful puppy dog eyes at him. "I think I really need to go home and... is John here, anywhere?" I said in a small voice and blinked my large eyes.

"Sherlock..." He was going to say something exasperated but then sighed and gestured in John's direction. "He's over there. He was really worried. You should take better care of him, you know." He looked at me and shook his head. "Okay okay, for god's sake, go!" I think he smiled as he watched me go.

I made my way over to John and tossed that useless blanket through the window of a police car.

John looked me up and down, as if searching for any sign of injury. He gave me that small lopsided smirk. "You know, when I said you needed to find a job that gets you high and excited, I wasn't thinking about you getting in a car with a serial killer..."

He kept talking and I watched him with a quiet smile. "Good shot." I said then.

"Yes... must have been, through that window." John tried to keep a straight face and look innocent. He failed completely. _Oh John, how could you ever keep a secret?_

"Well, you'd know." I looked at him fondly and took his hands in mine. "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers." I said thoughtfully and then lifted and turned his hands so I could inspect his palms briefly. There wasn't much that was visible to the naked eye of course, but I wouldn't pass up on the opportunity to have a look at the hands of a gunman so soon after the shot was fired. And then they were John's hands, rough and hardened but so very very warm and gifted also with a surgeon's delicate dexterity. They were all the contradictions that defined John. "Are you alright?" I asked, locking eyes with him again.

"Yes, of course I’m alright."

"You have just killed a man."

He sighed and avoided my gaze for a moment. Then he looked up at me again. "True... and wasn't the first time, maybe you should know that." He shook his head slightly and his eyes were trained on our joined hands again when he continued. "I have seen lots of people die. Good people, friends of mine - thought I'd never sleep again. But I'll sleep fine tonight."

I squeezed his hands and let my thumbs stroke his skin. I hesitated before I spoke. "John, you know that I'm... not very good with... relationship things and talk about..." I paused.

"Emotional stuff?" John suggested helpfully.

"Not my area." I confirmed. "But the fact that you'd actually kill to save me... it does indicate that you're not mad at me, right?"

He laughed softly. "You know, I'm getting the feeling that with you there's no point in holding a grudge for long. You have a terrible memory for things like that." He smirked at me.

What else could I do but kiss him? Keeping a firm grip on his hands, I bent down to brush my lips over his before my tongue teased them apart so I could deepen the kiss. Then my teeth nipped his lower lip, knowing full well how much he liked that. It caused a delicious breathy moan. Sadly, it also caused him to draw back.

"Stop that!" he said laughing breathlessly "We can't make out, it's a crime scene."

"On the contrary, social convention suggests the hero should be kissed by the one he saved." I put in. "The concept receives plenty of media coverage."

He chuckled quietly, then glanced down at his hands pointedly - wondering probably when he'd get them back. _I'll let go eventually. Just not yet. Just one more thing._

"John... I..." He looked at me questioningly. Not my area. He knew it wasn't and I'm sure he would have tried to finish the sentence for me as he often did, had he known what I was going to say. I took a deep breath to get it out. "I... didn't mean to get you in a situation where you would have to... do things like that. I really didn't. I... I was going to save *you* this time."

Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile spread out on his face. "Maybe you did."

I did let go off his hands then. But only because he was leaning in to kiss me again.

 

 

The End

 

or to be continued?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who left a comment, kudos, subscribed or bookmarked.  
> It's the feedback that keeps me writing! :)
> 
> Would anybody like to see a sequel?


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